


Conflicting Aesthetics

by evilmouse



Category: Star Wars Legends: Thrawn Trilogy - Timothy Zahn, Star Wars: Rebels, Star Wars: Thrawn Series - Timothy Zahn (2017)
Genre: Adventure, Alderaan, Art Criticism, Art Forgery, Art appreciation, Casual Sex, Chimaera Crew (Star Wars), Chiss (Star Wars), Cultural Invention, Droids, F/M, Imperial Officers, Interrogation, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Painting, Portraits, Power Imbalance, Rare Pairings, Rebellion, Rescue Missions, Sketches, Subtle Romance, Sy Bisti Language (Star Wars), Undercover as a Couple, Xeno, the empire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-12-20 21:16:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21063314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmouse/pseuds/evilmouse
Summary: Grand Admiral Thrawn encounters a talented art forger whose work has somehow made its way into his collection.





	1. Audacity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elsajeni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elsajeni/gifts).

The unnatural brightness of the lights irritated her unprotected eyes, no doubt the point. The binders locking her ankles, thighs, wrists and biceps to the durasteel board were unforgiving. Long before the alien had taken over her interrogation, she’d given up testing for weaknesses.

There were none.

The first few minutes her new host was in the detention cell, he hadn’t even spoken. Instead, he’d examined her face as if she couldn’t return his appraisal, scanned her body like she could be hiding something. 

She wasn’t.

The troopers who had arrested her had searched her thoroughly—even tossed the antique needle holding up her hair to the ground before taking her into custody.

Arrested. Well, she assumed she had been arrested. Captured, at the least. But instead of the local security headquarters or criminal court, they’d put her in stun cuffs, strapped her into a shuttle chair with their E-11 blaster rifles trained on her, and left Hesperidium far below. She was in trouble, that was clear. Maybe serious. If she was lucky, perhaps just a case of mistaken identity.

“Where did you get the paint?”

So not mistaken identity. He knew who she was—or rather, what she did.

The humanoid’s voice was deep and calm, almost pleasant. There was a trace of an accent, something she couldn’t identify, which wasn’t surprising. She didn’t have the credits or time to travel much. His question sounded conversational, not combative. It wasn’t how the stormtroopers had asked, during the trip. Name, age, affiliation. She’d refused to answer them too. Given her business, it was hardly the first time she’d been detained for questioning. It was, however, the first time said questioning had taken place aboard an Imperial Star Destroyer.

After the shuttle had docked, she’d been hauled to the detention block, restrained, and then ignored. 

The room was more spartan than she’d expected. In her time, she’d been in a few holding cells. Even in the Outer Rim, they had more than the sparse furniture here and the smooth, modular cabinets. Was one of the sleek panels concealing an IT-O or something equally horrifying? She tried not to think about it. At this point, nerve was all she had. Dwelling on the Empire’s interrogation techniques would turn her into a babbling idiot.

A small noise from his throat. She didn’t react, keeping her blankest stare fixed upon him, even as her artist’s mind logged his remarkable features for later consideration.

The blue-skinned man stared back, inscrutable.

“Where. Did you get. The paint.”

His words reverberated, humming like a well-tuned engine into her ears. It was a rich voice, made for commanding. In her case, for obeying. She wiggled against the interrogation board, sifting her thoughts for ideas. It was all too evident this wasn’t like her other arrests. Probably now would be a good time to start cooperating.

Up until this point, the alien hadn’t betrayed annoyance. But, she thought with a small trickle of fear, he hadn’t really betrayed any emotion whatsoever. Maybe his species didn’t. She’d never seen a Pantoran with red eyes. His cheekbones and forehead were high, his bone structure so sharp as to make his angular face appear gaunt from certain perspectives. His lips were thin and almost invisible when he wasn’t speaking. The closely-cropped hair was a darker blue than his skin, hovering somewhere between indigo and black. It was a fabulous shade. She recorded that too in her memory.

And his eyes. They were frightening and relentless, those eyes. A flare of yellow ringed them, adding heat to their extraordinary searing fire. They would burn a hole in her skull if he didn’t blink soon.

He probably wasn’t a Pantoran.

With a sigh—finally displaying some reaction—the man drummed one finger against his opposite wrist, apparently a nervous habit. Then he moved out of her line of sight with the elegance of a snake. The door snicked open behind her. The stormtroopers who had been posted as her guards marched out without a word.

And then he was back, shiny boots clacking on the metallic surface of the floor. He tapped briefly at the wall console, turning to face her as the restraints released with a click. The freedom was so abrupt, and her muscles so fatigued, she almost collapsed.

The man didn’t move to help her, only observed with his maddening, implacable poise, then gestured to a small narrow bench against the wall. There was a square table separating it from a functional chair, just opposite. She sat on the bench.

“What is your name?”

She couldn’t pretend she didn’t understand Basic, unfortunately. The Imperials had taken her unawares, outside her studio, and she’d angrily spat venom in several languages at her captors before deciding that she’d be better off silent. 

No doubt he knew that.

“Whatever you want it to be,” she shrugged. 

It was the first she’d spoken to him. One thin eyebrow raised, the glowing red of his eyes brighter at her capitulation.

“Whatever I want it to be,” he repeated thoughtfully, taking the chair across from her.

She nodded.

“So you could be Dobeq?” His lips stretched, as if he were suppressing a smile. “Tojnun? Ar’naudhe?” 

She said nothing, but he had her number, that was obvious from the names he threw at her. Female painters. Famous. Expensive. 

“Ter’taka? Yuskavage? Wren?”

Her eyes widened at the more obscure names, but she gave no other sign that she recognized them.

“Spero? Le Da? Salle? Chard?” He was firing them at her like blaster bolts, listing her forgeries as if he’d seen them all. “Tan’cr? Bsetahah?”

The last name she didn’t know, and swallowed the urge to ask him. Whoever this guy was, he knew his art. The idea that he’d lumped an unknown with such illustrious company was enticing.

“That one.” She forced a smile to her lips. “Bsetahah.” 

The raised eyebrow lifted higher, in curiosity or surprise. Of course he didn’t believe her, but she could see his interest in her selection.

“Bsetahah,” he echoed, like it was something of reverence.

“Yeah,” she replied. “But my friends call me Seta.”

His mouth twisted, then resolved into a small smile.

“Seta, then.” He leaned back in the chair. “Tell me where you got the paint.”

“Tell me why you care,” she answered, finding her own curiosity had begun to outweigh her fear. 

“I want it. I want to study it.”

“Are you a painter?” she asked, genuinely interested. Her methods were secret, but this officer was no longer hiding his cards, had at least released her from the restraints. This was preferable to bellicose questioning. Maybe the Empire didn’t want her dead.

“No,” he said, “but the Thennquora methods of artistic pigmentation fascinate me. Some species, at the height of their cultural renaissance, were able to replicate it. Most could not.” He tilted his head at her as if evaluating her comprehension of the topic. “If I understood the medium, I would better understand what compelled some species, like the Saffa, to imitate it religiously, while others discarded it in favor of lighter shades while maintaining a similar perspective and style.”

“You can’t procure it,” she admitted, finding herself drawn in despite her intentions to not engage. But you could count the people on her homeworld that knew anything about the origins of Saffa coloring on two fingers—her master being the other. “You have to make it from scratch.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, and the officer sat up straighter. “How?”

There was a disturbing intensity about the question. Seta backed off.

“I don’t know,” she lied, “but it’s a compound that isn’t for sale; I thought it was a lost art.” Crossing her legs, she tried for the appearance of nonchalance. “No one knows how to make it.”

White-gloved hands pressed flat on the table as the man bent towards her over its width. He knew she was lying. That last comment had probably been a mistake.

“Seta…” He seethed the word, voice dangerously low. Then, as if the name itself was a balm, composure resettled over his features. His voice regained its earlier modulation. “Tell me, and I will let you go.”

What could be in her paint that the Empire wanted? Her mind raced. Some chemical that was deadly in certain solutions? It made no sense. This couldn’t be about art.

“You’re lying,” she countered, hoping he would tell her the truth now. She wasn’t so stupid as to believe some Imperial stooge was a connoisseur of millennia-old paintings.

He said nothing. So he _was_ lying. Or else why not just deny it?

“What’s _your_ name?” she asked. She suddenly wanted to know.

“Mitth’raw’nuruodo,” he said, enunciating clearly, “but you can call me Thrawn.”

“That what _your_ friends call you?” she shot back.

He smiled again and said nothing.

“Then I’ll call you Mitth’raw’nuruodo,” Seta grinned, sensing his surprise at her flawless pronunciation. She had linguistic talents as well as artistic ones. Maybe foolish to reveal her hand like that, but she always was unable to resist showing off. Probably why she was terrible at sabacc. Definitely why she became a professional art forger in the first place.

~~

The interrogation—conversation, she supposed—lasted hours. Seta had taken her new name to heart, and was grateful that her captor didn’t attempt to beat another one out of her. They discussed art. 

That was all he cared about. 

Art. Paintings in particular, but whether that was due to her specialty or his personal preferences she couldn’t tell.

Thrawn waxed poetic about Neo-Geo Bothan abstract, Mandalorian graffiti, the functional expressionism found in warrior clans throughout the Mid Rim, the deconstruction of Post-Galactic Civil War era Rodian spatterpaint, Ithorian mythological etchings, and the conceptual paintings of the Krath.

That became their first point of contention. A heated debate ensued regarding the simplistic presentation of Krath subject matter, with Seta arguing her side with as much heat as Thrawn.

“It is different, more refined than Minimalism,” he insisted, stabbing a blue finger in her direction, “even if it is very similar.” He’d discarded his gloves an hour ago.

“You’re wrong,” Seta retorted. “They overlap. They fight one another; it’s combative. One is a critique of the other, and wouldn’t exist without the earlier drift of blanket rejection for aesthetic conventions.” She pointed back at him, mocking his gesture and mimicking the tilt of his head.

“Yet—” Thrawn stopped. Looked at her finger, then to her face. Something in his gaze was different—she could see details in his eyes that she hadn’t noticed earlier, when he’d been more intimidating than loquacious.

“Yet?” she prompted, knowing she’d won.

“Yet they _are_ antagonistic…” Thrawn stood up abruptly, hands fisting, a thin vein throbbing along his temple. “The ancient age’s conceptual execution…fighting to reject Minimalism.”

“The ultimate expression of the Modern,” she grinned in triumph.

“Yes.” His jaw clenched, as if the admission was difficult for him. “But…the…”

Thrawn said a word she didn’t recognize in a language she didn’t know. Seeing her incomprehension, his lips thinned, then he tried Sy Bisti. “_Ukonakaliswa_?” He shook his head, seemingly annoyed by the lack of precision.

Communicating about art was as easy as getting a Hutt to go on a diet, and Seta sympathized. She couldn’t interpret Thrawn’s native tongue exactly, but she thought she knew what he meant in the trade language. 

“Entropy,” she offered.

He cocked his head, something dismissive or condescending in the look. “Entropy is a principle of—”

“Yes, yes, it’s physics and science.” Seta waved a hand in irritation. For a creative mind, Thrawn needed to think more flexibly about vocabulary.

“But it’s what you _mean_, right? The degradation—destruction—” she used the Basic translation for his Sy Bisti phrase, “of the system. Something inescapable. The sense of static, the simplistic lack of progress in the Krath artwork—”

Convinced, Thrawn cut her off. “Yes! The _entropy_ inherent—” 

Seta knew where he was going, and interrupted before he embarrassed himself.

“You’re focusing too much on the decay in the conceptual execution.” She shook her head, pitying. “But it can be optimistic as well as nihilistic.”

Those red eyes narrowed, and Thrawn glared at her. She was much shorter than he was, and suddenly very aware of the fact. His white uniform looked more imposing than ever, wrapping him with unimpeachable authority and command.

“Who taught you?” The question seemed weaponized, accusatory.

“I taught myself.”

“How?”

“Imitation.”

“You mean forgery.”

“I mean imitation.” Seta shrugged. “It’s not my fault if some Moff’s uncultured wife can’t tell the difference between a genuine Janyor and my work.”

Thrawn was silent a moment, then came to a decision. 

“Come with me,” he snapped, and headed to the cell door, which swished open. It hadn’t been locked. Still, she wouldn’t have gotten far—the stormtroopers that had left hours ago were standing on either side of the exit.

“Dismissed,” Thrawn said, without slowing down.

“Yessir,” came the mechanical voices in unison as they spun on their heels and exited in the opposite direction.

“Who _are_ you?” Seta asked without thinking. Undoubtedly the boss, or one of them.

Thrawn spun to a halt mid-step, impatience in his bearing. She didn’t think he would answer, imprisoning her with his burning stare.

“Commander of the Seventh Fleet. A Grand Admiral of the Imperial Navy.” 

Seta sucked in a breath, stunned. Grand Admirals were the bogeymen of the galaxy, with reputations for ruthlessness matched only by their rumored brilliant strategies. Thrawn noticed her reaction. She’d been baiting him—arguing with him over cultural interpretations, pointing out gaps in his technical understanding of historical painting. And now he was probably taking her somewhere to execute her for her thoughtless confession to forgery. She was a fool, lulled into it by his pretended—no, not pretended, she made herself acknowledge—_actual_ expertise in the visual arts.

He watched her implacably, waiting for a response. When none was forthcoming, Thrawn turned away and continued down the hallway, not checking to see if she followed. Of course not, Seta rationalized. He was used to unquestioning obedience. He was a kriffing Grand Admiral. 

So distracted by the revelation, fighting back the fear that slithered in her guts, Seta barely noticed when Thrawn halted before a wide, unmarked double portal. With a code cylinder, he opened it. She followed him through, questioning her own sanity as her eyes were overwhelmed by the art surrounding her—holos of Caridan sculptures, Paonidd extrassa, and jewelry from Kiros. Genuine articles too—tapestries hung on the walls, one that looked to be Bardottan silk, another showing a hunting scene in Miralukan weave.

With a start, Seta realized belatedly that this was an office. It was subtly lit, a pale azure glow coating the artifacts and furniture. The ambiance was soothing after the stark white of the corridor’s fluorescents. The centerpiece was an arc-shaped desk, a neat stack of datapads on one end. Comfortable-looking chairs bookended the side closest to the portal. The vast holocomm display dominated all else.

Turning around to take it all in, her gaze was drawn to a painting displayed to the right of the entryway. It would be visible from his desk, she thought, indicating he must be fond of the artwork. Slowly approaching it, Seta found it breathtaking. There was a chaotic decadence to it, energy at once inviting and chilling. As if the artist had no choice but to pour a cacophony of misery onto the canvas, and the result was somehow uplifting. It reminded her of an upbeat melody with sad lyrics—you couldn’t help singing along, but at the same time marveled and worried at the contradiction between content and form.

“Your thoughts?” he asked at her elbow.

“I love it,” Seta breathed, her predicament momentarily forgotten. “It’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.”

He moved away but she had to know more. Whose was it? What world was this from? She’d never seen a similar style, and the paint itself looked diluted and strange. She would give anything to reproduce it. Seta dragged her eyes away, meaning to ask for details, but Thrawn was on the other side of the room, beckoning.

He had stopped in front of a piece propped on an easel near the expansive viewport. Seta’s eyes narrowed. Imperial propaganda. She hated it, had seen far too much on her native Palanhi and sprinkled throughout the Core. This image was particularly celebrated and oft-produced, uncreatively entitled _Join_ after the largest of the words underscoring a plain white stormtrooper’s bust. Seta’s opinion of Thrawn’s artistic tastes sank considerably at the sight.

“Well?” Thrawn asked.

“Dunivee,” she sighed, not attempting to hide her disdain at its creator. “Boring. Utilitarian.” Suddenly remembering who she was talking to, Seta straightened. “But effective, of course, excellent composition and color.”

Thrawn huffed, the sound close to laughter and so unexpected she took a step away.

“Yes,” he encouraged, “boring. But is it genuine?”

Ah, so that was what he wanted. Her expertise to determine if his own eyes had failed him? Seta made a quick evaluation—the canvas, the materials, the signature, the style. 

“Yes. It is.” She was happy not to be the bearer of bad news. The moron had probably paid a year’s salary for the ugly thing, and killing the messenger wasn’t unheard of in the Empire. “Worth a tidy sum, too,” she added grudgingly. “There are millions of prints, so the original for something so ubiquitous has more value.”

“Excellent,” Thrawn declared, but Seta wasn’t sure if it was the painting or her that had passed his muster. He punched a control on the desktop, and several Rebel Alliance recruitment posters replaced the more classical artworks that had been hovering in the space. They weren’t familiar to her, but each design was very similar in style. The same artist had created them all.

“Tell me about these.”

Seta felt trapped. She wasn’t a Rebel. What was he trying to do? If he couldn’t lock her up for forgery, he’d find some other crimes to accuse her of?

“I don’t know anything about these,” she said quickly.

The Grand Admiral tutted in disappointed, then seemed to guess at the reason for her reticence. 

“Seta.” Something in his voice was reassuring, and she relaxed slightly at the false name. It was a reminder that he had already allowed her the illusion of control, played along with her imposture. “The art. I am asking only about the art.”

She took a step closer, looking at the holos.

“Take your time,” Thrawn said softly.

She did. The lines were muted, now that she was paying more attention. Seta shook her head to clear it, focusing on the printmaking, the composition. She wasn’t sure what he wanted, but knew this was another test. The technique was typical for the medium, but the colors of the inks—the mossy greens, the rich blues—reminded her of Alderaanian impressionist palettes.

Walking amongst the four samples hovering around her, she tried to picture how she would copy them, the types of oils she would need. There was a matte hinted at by the holo, but the quality was too faint to determine how best to achieve the identical patina to match the original.

Finally she gave up. If he killed her for her lack of insight, there was nothing she could do about it.

“Your holos aren’t good enough for me to perfectly reproduce these,” she admitted. “I see a pattern to the types of colors used, but…” She trailed off, seeing amusement, of all things, on his face. “What?”

“I am not asking for forgeries,” he said.

“Imitations,” Seta muttered under her breath.

“What can you tell me about the artist? The style? The origin?”

Seta turned back to look at the art, trusting her gut impression more than anything else. It rarely failed her.

“From Alderaan. Nothing special about the technique except a clear attempt to mimic the Dunivee school of blunt martial messaging. The use of Aurebesh font lightens it somewhat, but I wouldn’t hang it in a gallery.”

Thrawn nodded, apparently approving of her evaluation. “A human female artist, would you agree?”

Seta didn’t know, and was sick of this game. Was it because she was a human female artist? Trying to entrap her? She wanted to go back to her studio and pretend this striking blue Grand Admiral and his marvelous museum of galactic artwork had only been a dream.

“Maybe,” she allowed. “I couldn’t say for sure.”

She thought she saw disappointment in his features, for just a moment, before they resolved back into that placid, oddly handsome yet expressionless mask. And then, over his gold-decorated shoulder, Seta spotted one of her own paintings. Her heart stopped, mouth dry. 

He didn’t know. It was displayed as if it were another priceless relic. 

Suddenly Thrawn was beside her, everything about him and around him suffused with tension.

“What do you see?”

Was he a mind reader? How could he tell? She was positive her face was as blank as ever, only her skin burning with fear, her pulse pounding a steady tattoo of “_escape escape escape_.” She was an idiot, standing here discussing art with one of the most powerful and dangerous men in the galaxy.

“Nothing.” Her voice was close to steady.

“Nothing?” His was disbelieving. “Come now, Seta, you disappoint me.” 

Thrawn crouched down, his cheek almost against hers as he checked her line of sight. Seta could feel the heat of him, smell something different and strange and inviting about his presence. She struggled to focus. 

“Ah.” He straightened, walking over to the wall, ushering her to follow. She did, having no choice, really. “The surrealist Zeltron, is it?” His hands gripped her shoulders, spinning her to face him. Those eyes saw right through her. “The Modoll?”

Giving up, Seta nodded. Thrawn looked more content than upset. He released her, turning his attention to the riot of color splashed on the canvas before them. Her arms stung from where his insistent hands had bruised her skin.

“The decalcomania is perfectly balanced. The tones mirror everything exactly from Modoll’s abstract period—the sensuality, the passion.” Thrawn’s timbre dropped into a softer register. “What gives it away as a fake?”

He sounded truly sad now. Seta remembered her earlier thought, that his species showed no feeling, and wondered how she had ever seen him that way. 

What kind of Imperial was this alien? To understand the concept as well as feel the artist’s motivation resonate—Thrawn was not just a student of art, it was clear. Capturing the intent of the creator was the hardest part of her work—and Seta was typically proud of her ability to do so. But Thrawn was an aficionado, his appreciation naked and pure. He had been cheated, and regretted it on more than an academic level. His startling hint of emotion made her recklessly honest.

“It’s mine. It’s one of mine,” she confessed, shaking her head. “I’m sorry Mitth’raw’nuruodo.” Mortified at realizing how she had spoken to him, she tried to correct the error—“Grand Admiral.”

He smiled slightly, ignored her amendment. “Seta. This is most impressive. But…” He stared, rapt, at the fraud, “…this is not a forgery.” The smile grew, white teeth flashing in the dim lighting. “Or _imitation._ This is a perfect replica of Modoll’s style—aesthetic rivaling a true original.”

“A tribute,” Seta corrected him automatically. “I call them tributes.”


	2. Extravagance

Seta could hardly believe he’d let her go.

Grand Admiral Thrawn had sent an escort to return her to the modest art studio on Hesperidium, with little fanfare. He’d been cordial, but the enthusiasm, the vulnerability she’d seen for a brief moment in his office had stayed buried. He was once again imposing, intimidating, and impassive.

They had come to an understanding after she’d instructed him how to make Thennquora paint. She would be allowed to continue operating, and periodically the Empire would perhaps call upon her “talents” for a service. Seta knew she’d gotten off easy. Forgery was one thing, defrauding the Imperial elite was quite another. There were enough rich bureaucrats with her “imitations” and “tributes” on Coruscant alone to have her locked in a detention cell for years, or, depending on where she was convicted, lose a few fingers.

She’d toyed with the idea of fleeing the sector, but soon discovered her travel clearance had been revoked. More stormtroopers patrolled in the vicinity of her studio, probably not a coincidence. She was free, but Seta was still a prisoner. Thrawn wanted her where he could find her.

She was stuck.

She did have work to distract her. The first thing she’d done, once Seta recovered from the experience enough to believe it wasn’t some sort of trick, was try to learn more about the gorgeous painting in Thrawn’s office. She wrecked dozens of canvases in attempts to reproduce it, to capture even the sense of its style. 

Her seventh try was close, but not close enough. After the eleventh failure, she almost abandoned the endeavor. If she ever had an opportunity to see its glory again, Seta vowed she would at least grab a holo of it. 

_If_ she ever saw it again. Seta wondered at her own stupidity sometimes. If she were lucky, and smart, she would live the rest of her days without another Imperial abduction. Or visit to a Grand Admiral’s personal office.

~~

Four standard months later, however, the encounter she’d been dreading came to pass. The door annunciator rang in the middle of a sweltering summer afternoon. Wiping with one viridian-stained hand to push the hair from her eyes, Seta checked the security holocam. She’d had it installed shortly after her adventure on the _Chimaera_. While she was under no illusions as to its ultimate utility, it did much for her peace of mind.

The visitor on her threshold, however, shattered it.

It was Thrawn. She was certain, even though he wore glareshades to hide his glowing eyes. A flowing cloak camouflaged his broad shoulders and the lean physique she remembered rather too well.

And he was alone.

Swallowing her fear, Seta pressed the lock release. After all, they had an arrangement. He would have no reason to keep her out of prison if she wasn’t useful, would he?

Seconds later, the turbolift alit on her floor.

“Grand Admiral,” she greeted him.

“Seta.” Thrawn inclined his head briefly, taking off the shades and looking around her disorganized studio. “I have interrupted.” He indicated the large canvas spread on her floor. “An imitation?” His fiery eyes flared with humor. “Or a tribute?”

She smiled despite herself. “Imitation.” Then, because she thought he’d enjoy the game, she spread her hands, inviting him to take a look. “Can you guess?”

Thrawn tossed his cloak carelessly onto a plasteel crate in the corner, following her to the center of the room. Seta set her jaw, trying to hide her surprise at his costume. He wore civilian clothes, a fitted black top which showed off the muscled definition in his torso and arms. His pants were synthetically woven, tailored, and just as flattering. The Grand Admiral looked like he was going on a date, save for the blaster strapped to his leg. And who knew, she rationalized, maybe he _was_ here with a lover. She couldn’t be his only reason to stop by. Hesperidium was a resort moon, touted as a pleasure destination, after all. It was one of the things that made her location profitable—wealthy tourists on vacation and foolish officers on holiday.

Thrawn’s attention to her work allowed her to take him in at leisure. He was quite attractive, she conceded. Definitely. Too bad he was an Imperial bigwig—no one got that high in the hierarchy without being as unscrupulous as a racing Dug. This Grand Admiral Thrawn was probably one of the biggest space slugs of all, no matter how good his ass looked in those pants.

“Ukian,” he pronounced, startling her from her decidedly unproductive train of thought. There was more than a little pride in his voice. Seta didn’t need to confirm his determination—he knew he was right—but she did anyway. Sweet talk never hurt, especially when the recipient could have you killed.

“Impressive,” she beamed at him. “How could you tell? Ukian art isn’t widely available—or highly valued.”

Seta could tell by the satisfied lift of his chin that she’d read him correctly. She’d seen it a little bit aboard his ship, but here was more evidence: this man liked explaining his logic, displaying his intellect, and being admired for it. The difference between Thrawn and the average sucker who walked into her art studio was he was actually knowledgeable about the topic. She _had_ almost enjoyed their conversation, she could admit, now that time and distance separated her from the distress of the experience.

“The palette and materials you are using indicate a horticulturally-based society. The method evidenced by your brush technique here—” he pointed, “and here—show you are copying the work of a much taller artist. And the subject matter…hundreds and hundreds of rivers on Ukio made this a relatively easy guess.”

“Do you like it?” she asked, curious.

The question seemed to surprise him, and Thrawn took a step back. He scanned the canvas again as he formed his answer.

“I appreciate the sentiment imbued in the utopian landscape, but I confess, with no offense intended to the original artist or,” a brief nod to her, “the talented counterfeiter, that it is not to my personal taste.”

“Fair,” Seta grinned. “I won’t try to sell it to you then.”

“Is it a commission?” he asked. “Do you have a client?”

“Yes,” she admitted, “it’s not to my taste either.”

Thrawn was still looking around. His presence was as improbable as it was confusing. She had to stop ogling and remind herself of the risk that his visit implied. His aegis had come at the price of her future usefulness to the Empire, and now he was here. Through sheer willpower, Seta made herself interrupt Thrawn’s unhurried perusal of her workshop.

“Can I help you with something, Grand Admiral?”

He straightened, as if the title had brought him back to himself. 

“Yes. I came to ask you to accompany me to Alderaan.”

Seta gaped. 

“A quick trip,” he continued. “I will not keep you from your work more than a standard week.”

She still was speechless. Alderaan? With him? His good humor and casual tone, his dress, the fact that he was alone here… She wasn’t naïve, but she hadn’t thought…

Seta’s heartbeat accelerated as she tried to come up with a response. It didn’t help that she couldn’t think clearly enough to decide if she was interested or not, or if rejection was even an option.

Thrawn misinterpreted the silence.

“You will be compensated,” he assured her. “It should be a relatively straightforward mission.”

Mission. A job. Seta couldn’t decide if she was disappointed or relieved. What had she expected, for the Grand Admiral of the Seventh Fleet to come calling at her shabby door to sweep her off her feet? Have a quick tryst in the secret heart of the Rebel Alliance? The paint fumes must be getting to her.

“Of course,” she answered, her chest tight. “When do we leave?”

~~ 

Seta packed haphazardly, nervous and uncertain. She’d never been to Alderaan and only heard it was a lovely world, full of cultured and intelligent artists whose gifts were celebrated throughout the galaxy. Alderaan didn’t know how to produce anything below exceptional quality—its food, its wine, its music, its art, all feted with almost universal appeal. Having a banquet for six different species from wildly varied homeworlds? Hire an Alderaanian chef and all taste buds will be delighted. Looking for a crowd-pleasing symphony to mark a pan-galactic celebration? Feature a composer from the famous Glarus Musical Academy and all ears will be awed.

She’d asked Thrawn if her artistic skills would be required—it would definitely require more packing and preparation if he expected her to copy a painting on the trip—but he’d shaken his head in a curt negative. So Seta packed utilitarian clothing, basics, some toiletries, and her EZel Pro datapad for sketching and taking notes. 

Seta’s fingers shook slightly as she secured the valise, tossing her daypack over one shoulder. Her head was full of questions, but fear kept her from asking. Thrawn may look like a vacationing bureaucrat, but still exuded an intimidating power that only a fool would be able to ignore.

Thrawn took the larger bag from her without a word as they stepped into the turbolift. Seta’s heartbeat accelerated, her pulse louder in her ears as she secured the floor with her code cylinder. Unbelievable—an Imperial Grand Admiral, portering her baggage. If she weren't so scared, she would have liked to take a holo.

~~

There was a battered speeder for hire waiting, the Rodian driver silent as Thrawn directed him to the central spaceport. It was hardly the type of transport she’d expect a Grand Admiral to engage for his errands, but maybe this too was part of his cover? She glanced at her travel companion. The glareshades were back on, the cloak loosely hanging on his shoulders, hiding the muscle and bone that were so finely constructed beneath. One hand lightly rested on her valise between his feet. 

Seta felt stupid. What if this _was_ some sort of … prostitution? He hadn’t asked her to bring the tools of her trade, after all, and if it was official Imperial business, where were the rest of the Imperials? Surely the Empire didn’t like their military brass to run around without bodyguards and escorts? Did Thrawn think he could blackmail her into being his mistress to stay out of a detention block? 

She opened her mouth to ask, not really certain what form the question would take. Still, far better to figure out what she’d gotten into sooner rather than later. Thrawn held a long finger to his lips, shaking his head ever so slightly. He’d been watching her. Behind those shades, she couldn’t tell where his eyes were looking.

Seta closed her mouth, something rancid roiling in her guts. This couldn’t be good. What had she been thinking, going with him? Unquestioning as a nerf to slaughter, and now unable to even inquire as to his motives or her role in this so-called “mission.” Back at the studio, she hadn’t felt threatened, Seta made herself admit, but that only made her more of an imbecile. Closing her eyes in defense of her own folly, she sightlessly absorbed the lurch and shock of the speeder as it flew ever closer to the spaceport. Thrawn, by all appearances, was a logical, reasonable being. He’d let her go once before; there was no reason to believe this trip would end differently.

The Rodian pulled the speeder up at a VIP docking station, a luxury SoroSuub yacht berthed nearby. It looked right at home with all the other pleasure cruisers that the nouveau riche Imperials liked to flaunt. She stepped out, wondering where the shuttle to his Star Destroyer was parked.

The speeder drove off and Thrawn turned to her, his free hand tugging the dark cloak tighter around his face.

“I will explain everything once we are aboard in our cabin.” She noticed the first person possessive plural and her eyes widened. “Until then,” he continued, “say as little as possible, and under no circumstances contradict me.”

They were going on the PLY-3000. Things were getting even stranger. But she nodded her understanding. 

Thrawn was already walking towards the ramp of the cruiser, where a jovial-looking human was waiting. His eyes were the brightness of the spice-addicted, and his limbs seemed mismatched. Upon closer inspection, Seta realized they all were prosthetic.

“Master Shen, I see you have found the missus. Welcome aboard, madam.” The man gestured with a flourish towards the interior, and Seta wished for her own pair of glareshades to keep her eyes from betraying shock. 

“Thank you,” she murmured, more out of reflex than any clever attempt at subterfuge, and walked inside the beautifully-appointed ship. 

The human introduced himself as Deld, the captain, and took her luggage from Thrawn’s fingers, babbling the entire time. She tried to focus. It didn’t take long to determine he was bragging about the amenities and suggesting they hire his luxury transport for a longer voyage. At the master cabin door, Deld set the bag on the floor and beamed at both of them.

“With the seasonal hyperlane congestion, all approaches to Alderaan are a little backed up. But shouldn’t be more than thirty standard hours. Don’t worry, we’ll take good care of you.” He turned and bowed slightly at the waist in her direction. “Make yourselves at home.”

They both thanked him and Thrawn coded open the door. Seta grabbed her luggage and ducked into the room, feeling the panic she’d been holding at bay threaten to overwhelm. She threw her things onto the closest chair and raced into the en suite refresher. The door didn’t lock. How could she think if the door didn’t lock? What had she gotten into? Thirty hours to Alderaan. Thirty. Hours.

“Seta…”

Thrawn’s voice was low and calm outside the door. It wasn’t like she could pretend she wasn’t in there, after all.

“Give me a minute. Please.”

Seta looked in the mirror, seeking distraction from her muddled thoughts. The diffused refresher light was meant to be flattering to all sentient skin colors and textures, but couldn’t do much with her current condition. Her pupils had blown wide from stress, her cheeks were flushed. Bright pink had reached the tips of her ears, making her look like she’d been attacked with rosewater paints. 

There was a water glass on the Selonian marble counter, and she gulped down as much as she could handle, starting to calm. The sooner she faced the reality of the situation, the better. She was stuck on a ship for thirty hours, give or take, with an Imperial Grand Admiral. But she wasn’t in prison, being tortured, or worse. She had all her fingers. It was actually a very nice ship. Thrawn seemed civilized, and he’d carried her kriffing luggage. Maybe she was overreacting. 

Maybe.

When she returned to the main cabin, Thrawn was sitting in one of the plush easy chairs, eyes on the refresher door. The glareshades were off, resting on a low table, the cloak nowhere in sight. Those well-muscled arms were bent, fingers templed, one leg crossed over the other knee. His head was cocked, appraising. His blue-black hair had grown out from the last time she’d seen him. Not long, but definitely longer, a lock dangling mid-forehead, escaping the uniformity of its fellow strands.

The embarrassment from her panicked retreat lingered, but Seta found strength in rationalizing her position. Before, outside, he’d asked her to stay quiet. Which meant however powerless she was in this situation, she still had power enough to screw up his plan. The thought was fortifying.

“Excuse me,” she managed, taking the seat opposite him in the small salon space.

Thrawn had been sitting back, but at her words, he leaned forward, fingers resting on his knees. His eyes latched onto hers, and seemed to judge her suitably attentive.

“As you have no doubt surmised, we are posing as a couple. There is an event at our destination—”

The pieces abruptly fell into place. Seta had been so out of sorts the past few weeks, she hadn’t even thought about it.

“The Quintuple A,” she gasped. It had long been a dream of hers to attend.

His eyes changed, although she couldn’t say how. Some sort of amusement, perhaps, a different sort of shine to them. 

“Yes. The Quintuple A.”

Seta’s first thought was she hadn’t brought any art…she couldn’t sell, couldn’t show… The Annual Alderaan Amateur Art Auction was known throughout the Core as the best place to find up-and-comers. She could secure dozens of new clients there…

Her brief elation was punctured like a fusion drill through fogstone. She had always wanted to go to the Quintuple A, but not like this. The thrill that had exploded in her chest upon realizing their purpose had already hardened into a dense ball of stress. They were going there because of the art, yes, but not to appreciate it. 

That Rebel artist was from Alderaan.

Thrawn was perceptive, or perhaps just extremely observant. When her train of thought had led her to that point, he seemed to have followed in lock-step.

“My name for the next few days shall be Honos Shen. The surname is well-known, associated with Pantoran criminal elements that have spread from their native world throughout the Javin sector. The family’s reputation should be enough to keep those we encounter from asking too many questions.”

“But everyone’ll know your money is good,” Seta added, seeing where he was going with this.

Thrawn nodded in agreement. “We have sufficient credits, naturally, to purchase quite a few pieces.”

Imperial funding. Seta raised an eyebrow at the “we” he used. This could be interesting. “Naturally,” she smiled. 

He didn’t smile back, still serious.

“Your name is Lymnia.”

“Your wife,” she said flatly, but Thrawn shook his head.

“No. Mistress. Paramour, if you prefer.” 

She bit her lip, wondering at his logic, but of course, Thrawn liked to educate. Maybe he thought it demonstrated his superiority. It wasn’t exactly annoying, but Seta found it closer to a flaw than an asset. As she expected, he continued without prompting. 

“It was difficult to plan this operation in detail, not having a great deal of advance notice regarding guests or entrants. I believe the…” A minuscule twist of his lips. She’d seen it before, when he was searching for the right word during their discussion of Krath art. “…flexibility of an impermanent relationship will better serve, should an informant have more carnal interest.”

He talked like a droid sometimes, Seta thought, but she got the point. They both needed to seem free and open to seduction. Sharing a life bond would deter some parties. Not all, but more than having a casual understanding would.

Thrawn’s words were clinical and impassive, but the reality was more weighted. Seta balked as she considered the implications.

“Are you saying—”

Expecting him to clarify, Seta was disappointed as Thrawn merely waited for her question. A small cough covered her hesitation.

“Are you saying,” she tried again, “that I might have to fuck someone?”

He seemed affronted, his jaw set asymmetrically. “Prostitution was not part of our arrangement.” Seta noticed he didn’t say it was entirely off the table. “Merely encourage would-be suitors.”

Merely. She wasn’t an innocent. But she took his point.

“What _is_ the mission, Mitth’raw’nuruodo?” His eyes narrowed. Ah yes. “I mean, Honos my darling?”

The Grand Admiral wasn’t amused. “To determine who among Alderaan’s talented artists is responsible for the treasonous work I showed you on the _Chimaera_.”

Seta felt like she’d been slapped. She prided herself on being a nonpartisan criminal, willing to cheat anyone with the gullibility and credits no matter their political views. There could be no pacifist outcome, if Thrawn wanted to unmask the talent behind the Rebel propaganda.

“What will you do to her?” she asked, steeling herself for his answer.

“Her?” he returned, a hint of suspicion coloring the word.

“_Your_ deduction, my love,” Seta replied. The insanity of the term of endearment settled her nerves rather than frayed them. Thrawn rewarded her temerity with a slight nod, lowering his leg.

“Indeed.” He was quiet for a moment, and she wondered, crazily, if he was debating what sweet nothing he should christen her with…

“Well?” she prompted. Those red eyes rounded in question. “What are you going to do to her? Or him?” The last was intended to annoy him, by doubting his reasoning, and it felt petty even as she said it. But it also felt good, like an affirmation of independence in a situation where she was hopelessly trapped.

Seta got to her feet, a ripple of adrenaline making her heart race. He expected her to use her skills to help him identify a traitor to the Empire. It seemed almost superfluous—she’d seen enough to know that Thrawn himself could probably unmask the artist. His analysis was likely better than hers, and he certainly was more confident in the information he claimed to extrapolate from viewing art. 

But she had to know if she would be responsible for someone’s death. The death of their family and friends. Everyone knew the Empire was pitiless, and used outed Rebels as examples to discourage others. He was a Grand Admiral—it was his _job_ to crush the Rebellion. The unfortunate target of his “mission” wouldn’t be spared. It was naïve to think otherwise.

Her thin fingers dug into the back of the well-cushioned chair as she stood behind it. It separated her from him like a shield, but nothing could keep his smoldering eyes from penetrating her composure, making her feel weak, angry, and exposed all at once.

“I do not know,” he finally said. “It depends upon what we discover.”

“You’re lying,” she accused, even though she supposed his words made sense. She didn’t really expect him to debate the point, but then Thrawn got to his feet as well.

“I am not.” He took a measured step, then halted as if thinking better of closing the distance between them. Stars, he was tall. 

“I cannot know the future. If, for example, upon being identified, the Rebel attacks us, I will retaliate. If lethal force is required, I will use it.” Thrawn’s tone was tight, not quite menacing but far from reassuring as he continued. “However, if she agrees to become a double agent, that will result in a different outcome. If she refuses to cooperate but does not display violent tendencies, that suggests other options.”

_Torture._ The word whispered in her head but Seta strangled it with a wince. He probably was telling the truth, and she couldn’t really complain. She had no choice. The Empire ruled the galaxy and was perfectly transparent about the price that traitors would pay. As its representative, Grand Admiral Thrawn not only held all the power in this situation, he was responsible for doling out whatever penalty Imperial justice demanded. Yet he had personally shown her a form of mercy; perhaps he would do the same for this rebellious artist. It was the best she could hope for, and in any event, Seta would only annoy him further if she tried to refuse or argue.

“Fine,” she muttered, walking over to her valise. She hadn’t brought enough to really warrant unpacking, so she just removed her EZel Pro and went to the overstuffed Sullustan leather sofa in front of the room’s rectangular viewport. The ship’s internal comm chimed as she kicked off her shoes and pulled her legs up onto the cushion.

“Yes, captain?” Thrawn’s voice was even and steady once more. Seta wondered what level of interpersonal agitation was necessary to alter that smooth, polished tone. Running over the few times she’d heard a hint of emotion, she catalogued them with interest. Losing an argument related to cultural theory had been the first… Learning one of his prized artworks was a forgery had been sufficient to break the impassive façade the second time. The latest was this discussion as to the fate of a traitor to his Empire. 

Seta glanced at Thrawn out of the corner of her eye. He knew art. Looked handsome in black. Liked to hear himself talk. Was willing to consider not killing a traitor if they were cooperative. He wasn’t at all what she would have expected in an officer of such high rank. And she liked hearing the cracks in his façade. What else could break that façade wide open? Not disappointment or anger…what about more pleasant stimulation? Seta let her head roll back, closing her eyes. Not a great idea. In fact, a very bad idea. Trapped on a ship with a good-looking, undercover Imperial Grand Admiral and wondering about his bedroom voice was borderline insane.

“We’re ready to depart, Master Shen, if you say the word.”

“The word is given, captain. Thank you.”

Deld invited them both to the cockpit anytime, and closed the comm. Seta ignored Thrawn as he came back to her side of the room. She hoped he would leave her alone, holding her stylo with a ferocity as her subconscious created lines and dictated the shading on the screen. Conversing, thinking even, were too difficult in her current frame of mind.

He didn’t leave right away, but neither did he hover. Once it was evident she didn’t wish to speak with him, Thrawn returned to the easy chair with a datapad. They sat in silence as the ship took to the stars.

~~

Hours passed. Seta lost herself, as she often did, in her art. When her screen was drowning in swirls and lines, when she couldn’t find another speck of space that wasn’t ornamented by shadow or the absence of it, she slid the stylo into its holder and held the easel vertically. It wasn’t her best work, but the agitation and tension in the lines were pure. It captured the moment just as well as a written diary, in Seta’s opinion. She rested the pad back on her knee, filing the image in her personal folder.

A small sound from behind. She twisted her neck to see Thrawn, arms crossed, looking down his nose at her. Maybe it was just the angle, or his height, or the fact that he stood while she sat, but she didn’t appreciate the thought of his critique or condemnation. How long had he been lurking?

“What?” Her query was clipped, challenging. She hadn’t noticed him, and it was embarrassing to admit the fact to herself, as well as know that he indubitably was aware of it.

“Imitation,” he smiled, “or tribute?”

Of course, in case she hadn’t been certain that he’d seen her graphic diary entry. The smile threw her though, automatically softening her defenses.

“Oh, that.” Seta unfolded her legs, stretching her arms as she stood up and sighed. “That’s just me.”

One of his elegant eyebrows raised, but he made no comment.

“It’s like…” she shrugged. “I don’t know. Practice. Therapy. Sometimes I just need to get something out, and it helps.”

“It _is_ quite…” he paused again, the tactic she’d started to think of his “word searching phase.” “…personal,” he finished. “Raw.”

“Good art should be, right?” Seta retorted. 

“Yes,” he agreed, “but yours rarely is. Personal,” he clarified, which she found charming and couldn’t explain why. “Your success is in _removing_ yourself from the work, channeling its origins. The detail to materials, methods, and mannerisms of something that you had no part in creating.”

She couldn’t disagree. It was her talent. But she had others.

“I’m hungry,” she announced, bothered by him, by his insight and his analysis and the fact that he had turned his attention to her art, uninvited. All in that rumbling deep timbre that she felt travel from her ears to her toes when he was this close to her.

“You are free to walk about the ship,” Thrawn replied. “But Lymnia…” A fleeting smile crossed his lips as he pronounced her pseudonym, “remember the mission.”

She sighed, and her stomach growled. “Yes, darling.”

“Is that necessary?” he asked, sounding wonderfully, blissfully exasperated to her ears.

“Sounds better than ‘Honos,’ don’t you think?” she snapped. Where had he come up with such preposterous names anyway? Lymnia. Like she was some exotic disease.

His chest expanded, deflated, the tightness of the material covering it making the deep inhalation obvious. And delicious, she thought, biting her lip.

“If you prefer,” he finally assented. 

Thrawn looked decidedly uncomfortable, and Seta thought it was a good look on him. Just like that exasperated tone had made her stomach flutter. There wasn’t much intimidating about him at the moment, actually. Out of uniform, hiding in a deluxe cabin aboard a fancy ship, this alien was clearly out of his element.

“Is it ‘darling’ you don’t like?” she teased. “Is ‘love’ better? Sweetheart? Wokling? Tookakins?”

Thrawn’s lips curled. “Of the choices you have offered, ‘love’ is perhaps the most…tolerable.”

“Marvellous, love,” she drawled, walking barefoot out the door.

~~

The food in the galley, or mess, or whatever the proper term for the dining room was on a yacht, was far better than her own cooking. It wasn’t that she couldn’t whip up something when necessary, but Seta was always too interested in aesthetic presentation at the expense of taste. The caterer that Captain Deld employed outdid her in both areas. She ate a little bit of everything with real gusto, and had two pieces of air cake for dessert.

Wandering the ship, Seta wished she’d brought her easel from the cabin with her. She was undisturbed. The small crew—perhaps just the captain and co-pilot—were nowhere to be seen. 

The yacht was decadence itself—a pool on the observation deck, a small gym off the main living area, and a wonderful collection of holos. She never went to the theatre back home. And there was a holoprojector in the guest cabin, Deld had been quick to mention. Snagging a few of the more adventurous-looking titles, she padded back towards their quarters. 

Seta had learned to segment her thinking long ago; it wouldn’t do to contemplate what unlucky client might lose his home when his lost masterpiece was found to be a duplicate, or what cutthroat investor might try to hunt her down for revenge after being swindled. This mental compartmentalization was as necessary to her survival as her plethora of identities, her lack of scruples, and her skill with a brush. And so she’d managed not to ruminate about her partner on this mission for the past few hours. Now she seemed unable to avoid it, leaning against the cold corridor wall and pinching the bridge of her nose.

Grand Admiral Thrawn was a mystery. Probably best he remain one. But the glimpses she’d seen of the man underneath the uniform had intrigued her, and she had to admit she liked his reaction to her teasing. It felt daring to push his buttons, but also a bit too close to flirting. She shouldn’t enjoy it, and shouldn’t be standing here wondering why he hadn’t left the room, come to find her, have something to eat.

Seta banged the back of her head against the smooth paneling behind her. This was why contemplation was unproductive and dangerous. She shouldn't think about anything but the mission, her responsibilities under their “arrangement,” as Thrawn had termed it. 

But he hadn’t eaten. She would have bumped into him, she was certain. Surely he must be hungry? Impulsively, she changed direction and headed back to the kitchen. Soon after, armed with a piece of air cake on a green ceramic plate, she rang for entry to the guest cabin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lymnia: a little play on Polymnia, the Greek muse of mimicry  
Honos: the Roman god of Honor and Virtue


	3. Piquancy

Thrawn stood to the side of the portal, allowing her passage. She smiled brightly, setting the plate down on the same low table hosting his glareshades.

Hands on hips, she turned to face him, willing pleasantness where she felt none. 

Kriff, he was handsome. While she’d been gone, Thrawn had used the refresher, hair artfully tousled. He wore a grey sleep shirt, the neck cut in a wide V, which exposed his collarbones to devastating effect. The sleep pants were loose, hanging extremely low on his hips. Almost too loose, as she could imagine just what one little tug on that string would do to the cinched waist.

He said nothing, enduring her appraisal silently. She’d been staring.

“I brought you dessert, love,” she said, the phrase coming out far too breathless to be natural. 

Thrawn winced infinitesimally at the term of endearment. The crack in his cool gave her confidence she’d been lacking. He was just a man. Currently a far-too-enticing-to-be-ignored man, exceedingly easy on the eyes, but still just a man. And unused, apparently, to being called various endearments. Feeling bolder, Seta took a step in his direction.

“You have to stop doing that,” she chided.

“Doing what?” His voice was wary. It was another tone she’d not heard before. Seta liked it. Exasperated, amused, upset, and now this careful distance. The Grand Admiral wasn’t chiseled from ice, no matter how sharp those cheekbones were.

“Flinching when I call you ‘love’.” She was in front of him now, very close. “If we’re supposed to be a couple, we have to act like it.”

The planes and muscles hidden by thin material lifted as he inhaled, exhaled, a full cycle of breath, like he was counting to ten. Then Thrawn nodded. 

“Do it again,” he said, but she tutted at him, wagging a finger.

“It doesn’t count if you’re ready for it, handsome,” Seta grinned, enjoying the narrowed eyes at the compliment. “I thought you were the expert, but it’s like you never did covert ops before.” She arched her neck to meet his gaze, and then reached for his left hand, hanging at his side. 

Thrawn tried to step back, but she seized it in both of hers.

“You’re going to have to touch me too.” 

His expression was stony, not what she was going for at all. “Stars, _Honos_,” she sighed, “if you can’t even hold my hand, we should call the whole mission off right now.” Thrawn turned his eyes down to where their fingers were joined as if he didn’t know what to do with her. 

“It was _your_ idea,” she fumed, letting go with a jerk and heading for the refresher. Just her luck, being stuck with a stunning specimen who had zero interest in her. Imperial asshole. Maybe he was against interspecies relations. She’d heard the Empire frowned on that, but to have been elevated to his rank…surely he wasn’t celibate.

Angrily, Seta turned on the sonic, stripping and getting under the spray. It was bad enough that Thrawn was attractive. There was more to it, though, a seedier motivation. If he’d sleep with her, she probably would stop worrying about future arrests. He wouldn’t kill her, at the very least. Best case scenario, she’d personally get something out of this whole trip. It had been a long time and she could use a good fuck. 

So much for that idea. He didn’t _act_ like a virgin. But he also didn’t act interested. He’d looked at her like she was speaking in a foreign language. Her touch hadn’t visibly caused the slightest response.

His hand had been nice, she admitted, washing her hair. Rough in a hardened way, light callouses that meant he at least went to the gym. Of course, his physique was enough to tell her that. And warm. She’d somehow expected it to be cold, maybe because of the color. This was stupid, Seta thought with annoyance. Torture of a different sort. Bad idea. Hadn’t she already decided that? And Thrawn’s reaction to her—or rather, lack thereof—confirmed it.

When Seta returned to the main room, she grabbed a sleepshirt and tugged it over her head before launching the wet towel into a corner. It was fully her intention to ignore her “paramour” but he cleared his throat as she headed to the sofa and her easel. The cake was no longer on the plate. He _had_ been hungry.

“I apologize.” The words were contrite. Another tone she hadn’t heard. Sitting down, she looked at Thrawn with a nod of acknowledgement, but he wasn’t done. “_Ngiyaxolisa_.”

It touched her, inexplicably. Maybe he thought Sy Bisti was close to her native language, since she’d obviously understood it before. She waved a hand. 

“_Khohlwa_.”

“Thank you for the dessert,” he said, sitting right next to her on the couch. The closeness seemed deliberate, and no doubt was. Thrawn was taking her counsel to heart, and his proximity felt like homework.

“You’re welcome,” she said, picking up the EZel Pro. “The food in the kitchen is good, and plenty of it, if you’re still hungry.”

“I am not,” he answered. 

He really did sound like a droid sometimes, Seta thought with a mental groan. She leaned hard into his arm, testing his tolerance. Thrawn didn’t move or protest. The bare bicep was warm, the texture of his skin soft but somehow thick. She sat up straight again. 

“Are you going to draw some more?”

Seta shook her head automatically, then reconsidered. “I hadn’t planned on it. Just look at the HoloNet, maybe read a little.” She turned to the side, taken aback at how close his face was to hers. Sitting down, their height difference was less pronounced. She could see the pores in his blue skin. His lips were smooth, the vertical lines that were so visible in human features missing. Changing her mind, she pushed the button for free mode.

“Actually, I’m going to draw _you._”

He had been practicing stoicism, but was clearly unprepared for her proposal.

“Why?”

There was that wariness again. Thrawn moved away from her on the sofa. Seta countered by resting a hand on his thigh. That was daring. And rewarding, the lean muscle tensing beneath her fingers, sending her mind to extremely naughty places. Meeting his eyes, studying his face, she tried to summon her earlier confidence.

“Because you have great form, with striking features. I’ve never seen a—” She flexed her fingers, squeezing his quadriceps. “Whatever you are. But you’re beautiful, from a purely artistic perspective. And it’s too early to go to sleep, and so unless you want to kriff me, we may as well kill some time with a sitting.”

Thrawn was looking at her hand on his leg, but didn’t move. 

“Chiss.”

“Chiss?” she asked. 

“My species.”

“Never heard of them. Wild Space?” It was a guess, but it seemed like a romantic enough region for him.

“Yes.”

Seta removed her hand, imagining she could still feel the heat of him tingling along her palm.

“Get comfortable,” she told him, all business as she moved to the chair opposite. “You’re going to have to stay still for a while.”

He raised an eyebrow, then seemed to consider. It was interesting and strangely charming, Seta thought, to see the Grand Admiral, commander of the Seventh Fleet, appear uncertain. 

Thrawn shifted his weight, sliding to the center of the cushion. Seta watched, amused at his hesitation as he arranged himself before her.

“Do you have a preference?” he asked, as if he had no idea what to do with his limbs.

“I wouldn’t mind sketching a nude; I’m a bit out of practice,” she grinned, teasing.

A darker indigo crept up his neck, and Seta resisted the urge to laugh. He was blushing. Or turned on. Or both. How fantastic. But then Thrawn hinged forward, his arms crossed to grab the lower hem of the shirt, and suddenly it was off. Seta swallowed her surprise. Apparently his shyness—if that was what it was—didn’t extend to his physique. Lucky for her.

Thrawn swiftly folded the shirt and placed it next to him on the sofa. He set his right arm on the armrest, then propped his feet up on the low table and crossed them at the ankles. He was posing.

It was a good pose. Classic and sexy. Seta licked her lips and started working. Shirtless was much better than clothed, maybe not as good as totally naked, but she wasn’t complaining. The breadth of his chest had been deceptively narrowed by his clothes’ tailoring. Broad pectoral muscles dominated the view. The muscled waves of his abdomen flowed in ridges down to the drawn waist of the loose material hiding the rest of him from her eyes. The defined lines from his hips lured her attention all too easily on that vanishing point, and Seta rolled her lips between her teeth to maintain focus.

Her stylo flew, the rough outline of him quickly realized, then moving on to details and depth. She didn’t speak, nor did Thrawn, something for which she was thankful. She didn’t like distractions while she worked, and it had been a long time since she sketched from life. Once she was past the initial shock of his acquiescence, Seta’s concentration was no longer disrupted by appreciation. 

About thirty standard minutes passed. Seta looked critically at the way his legs were foreshortened on her easel, the contrast in textures and form. She sketched the loose draped material of his pants, so fine compared to the coarse leather sofa at his back. The blue cream of his skin was only marred by the shiny imperfections of several scars along his trim torso. Her goal was holo-realism, an attempt to capture him not only in perfect detail, but give a spark of life to the work. It was his face where Seta would look for something beyond pure expression, where she needed to interpret and probe. 

His eyes were difficult. She tried to scoot the chair closer, frustrated to realize it was bolted to the deck. How very practical. Undeterred, Seta stood, holding up a hand when her subject looked ready to move as well.

“Stay,” she said simply, and perched on the edge of the table next to his feet. Leaning close, she examined his face with the thoroughness of a surgeon before cutting.

Thrawn sat immobile, his eyes studying hers without betraying any emotion whatsoever. His breathing stayed soft and regular.

“Your eyes are different.”

Her understatement was rewarded with a fleeting smile.

“Yes.”

“How?”

An eyebrow raised, and she bent even closer, trying to decide how to capture his look in shades of grey. An impossible task. His pupils were strange, shifting. His eyes _had_ to be in color—the rest of the portrait could stay in varied monochrome, but the eyes…ebony, saffron and amber surrounded by crimson. It would be a crime to deny the portrait the synergy of color in his gaze.

“I see differently.” Thrawn’s mouth twitched as she sat up straighter on the table. “Along the infrared spectrum.”

“Only infrared?” she asked, not looking at him for once, trying to find the right hue to capture the glow.

“Also infrared. I believe similar to yet better than a human would be an accurate description.”

Seta nodded, filing that information away in case it was ever useful. The immediate, important concern was to decide on a base red. She’d have to cover with at least two others to match his eyes correctly. Content at last, she set to work, looking up occasionally to gauge her success.

At this distance, speech wasn’t the only distraction. Proximity enhanced her awareness of him. Thrawn looked like some noble sculpture, coaxed from the finest marble. Cursing under her breath at a slip of the stylo, she erased the error and inhaled deeply.

The room’s temperature seemed to have gone up several degrees since she started.

It wouldn’t be perfect. That was the problem with truly fascinating subjects. Capturing his aura was the best she could hope for. Thrawn, even half-naked, exuded command. The sense of power, a demeanor of authority was prevalent, almost but not completely camouflaging a latent vulnerability. Not self-consciousness, something else. Seta could see it, imagined Thrawn would deny it existed, but wouldn’t be content until its flavor was imbued in the lines of her art. It was the sum total, everything wrapped in a charismatic fog of mystery, emphasizing the thing that made him most alien—which also made him intriguing and attractive beyond the physical.

Seta was mildly surprised at Thrawn’s patience, but took full advantage of it. She worked, fine-tuning and tweaking her sketch until she felt satisfied. Whatever he thought didn’t really matter—she’d drawn him for herself.

With a relieved sigh, she turned the screen to face him. It was only fair he saw the results.

His blue fingers accepted the device, bare feet leaving the table as Thrawn sat up from his lounging posture. He stared at her easel for a long moment.

So long, in fact, that Seta began to wonder at his assessment. She had taken her time, yes, but it wasn’t as if she’d kept him from anything. Her throat felt parched, her fingers stiff. Once he was done, she would get up and grab a drink. The only thing keeping her in front of him was the feeling that he might hit the delete command if she wasn’t looking.

_I won’t ask him what he thinks_, she vowed, a scowl starting to creep across her face. But Thrawn’s silence gave her too much time to contemplate the cobalt expanse of skin in front of her, marvel at the dormant strength in his bearing. His body communicated both threat and confidence. Seta shifted uncomfortably, feeling an ill-timed flood of desire.

“Personally…”

Snapping her head up at the word, she expected to meet his eyes, but Thrawn was still bent over the easel.

“…I find your use of hyper-realism inappropriate, or, more generously, misguided, for something so...” That little tilt of his mouth as the word was found. “Flattering.”

She snorted her opinion of that evaluation, about to argue, but he continued.

“Objectively, however…” Thrawn handed the device back to her. “It is sublime. I had no idea your artistry extended to representative style.”

She grinned. “You mean, you thought I just copied stuff.”

“Yes.” He smiled back. “Copied stuff exceptionally well.”

Standing, Seta bowed with a little flourish of her wrist, and went to put away her supplies. “Thank you, my love,” she smirked over her shoulder.

He wasn’t expecting it; the flash in his eyes told her that much. At least he didn’t wince this time. She decided not to remark on it, stretching with exaggeration and eyeing the inviting bed against the wall.

“It’s late,” she offered, wondering if he would take the hint. He did, but not quite in the way she had hoped.

“The bed is yours,” he said, standing up. One long arm reached for an embroidered throw pillow and set it against the armrest. His intention was obvious.

“There’s enough room for two.” 

Looking at the furniture in question as if he hadn’t considered the possibility, Thrawn clasped his hands behind his back. Seta at first thought he was stretching his arms, and then realized it was a version of parade rest. A formal look.

“There is,” he agreed, “however adequate room does not guarantee adequate comfort.” He sat back down on the sofa as if that settled the question.

Shaking her head, Seta climbed under the covers. Hadn’t he said he had infrared vision? Or his eyesight was better than a human? Was he completely oblivious to the fact that she was turned on enough for both of them? Stars, she was an idiot for even considering bedding a sithspawned Grand Admiral. She needed her head examined. Sleep.

“Turn off the light then,” she growled, fighting annoyance and rolling on to her side. She supposed she should be grateful for his diplomatic rejection—citing her comfort was gallant, if not true.

Seconds later it was dark, with only the hyperspace lines outside the viewport casting a tremulous glow inside the cabin. That too disappeared as Thrawn pushed the controls to blacken the transparisteel.

He moved silently, like a Zabrak on the hunt, and she wasn’t even sure he had returned to the sofa. Rolling back over to face Thrawn’s general direction, Seta narrowed her eyes, trying to make out his silhouette in the darkness.

“Is something wrong?”

His distinctive voice sidled across the room, smacking into her chest with its richness.

“No,” she grumbled, lying back down.

“You are upset.”

It wasn’t a question. Seta thought about a response, decided against it. The guy was an alien. Probably had no idea about human women anyway. Mating customs in the Core. He was from Wild Space, after all. The hypothesis made her stifle a giggle, then she gave up suppressing it. He couldn’t accuse her of being upset if she was laughing.

Silence from Thrawn’s side of the room, but she felt his stare. Seta propped her head on one hand and saw faint twin fires burning in the darkness. He was watching her.

“Sleep in the bed,” she tried again.

Like before when she’d suggested he strip, Seta didn’t expect much of a reaction. But there was a slight shift across the room, and she realized he was no longer reclining. Apparently considering her invitation. Then:

“Are you propositioning me?”

She laughed again, loud and explosive. It fed on itself, and she couldn’t stop, the outburst dissembling into sniggers until finally she gasped at him.

“Do you know you sound like a droid?”

Imagining his reaction to her question, she laughed again, abruptly stopping as he stood. In five strides he was at the bedside, his form ominous in the shadows. Was he angry? Thought she was insulting him? She’d just been teasing, but furthermore, it was true. 

Seta sat up, back against the intricately carved headboard, trying to pull herself together. She shouldn’t have mocked him. Thrawn was dangerous. She couldn’t forget that, no matter how good he looked with a bare torso. The bare torso that was eye level in the darkness, a solid mass of black in the midst of lighter black. He hadn’t put his shirt back on.

“Answer the question,” Thrawn said quietly.

Seta swallowed. He didn’t sound angry. She didn’t know this tone—hadn’t heard it before. But he was waiting for a reply.

“For some people—artists—” she said, wishing desperately for more light to read anything in his face, “doing a portrait like that could be considered foreplay.”

He didn’t move, but his eyes closed, robbing her of the only illumination in the pitch of the cabin.

“I was unaware,” he ventured, eyes opening again.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” Seta pointed a finger in his direction. “That. _I was unaware_,” she mimicked his deep voice. “Just say “I didn’t know. Or “I had no idea,” anything that isn’t automated or artificial or robotic.”

“It explains why you flattered me in your portrayal,” he said, ignoring her comments. 

“I didn’t flatter you,” she snarled. “That’s what you look like. I wasn’t catering to your ego. Don’t insult my work by thinking I would corrupt it in the name of seduction.”

He seemed taken aback by her vehemence.

“Apologies.”

“Fine,” she sighed dramatically, lying back down and closing her eyes. A disaster. This whole thing, from getting caught in the first place to her arrangement with an art-loving Imperial, to coming on this trip, to drawing his naked chest, was one monumental disaster.

She didn’t hear him leave the bedside. Seta cracked an eyelid, bracing herself.

Thrawn stood in the same spot, unmoving. Uncertain. She was in control here, Seta realized with a start. Even in the dark, he projected that same vulnerability, that need for explanation, as when he’d asked her about the Zeltron forgery. What in the world was going through his brain?

Her choice didn’t feel like a conscious one—perhaps because she’d made it much earlier that she would have admitted.

“Have you decided?” Seta asked, flipping open the covers in welcome. “Or do Chiss not believe in casual sex?”

Without a word, Thrawn slipped with a dancer’s grace between the sheets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Ngiyaxolisa_: I'm sorry  
_Khohlwa_: Forget it


	4. Verisimilitude

Sleeping on a starship wasn’t something she’d done often. Waking up was disorienting—there was no sun to mark the time, and she never was one for wearing a chrono. Only the complete lethargy that indicated sloth rather than fatigue made Seta think it was probably late in ship-time. The room was still mostly dark, but the faint illumination of a datapad from the sofa indicated where her bedpartner had settled.

Looking up at nothing, Seta smiled, savoring the pleasant ache associated with the delicious feeling of being well-fucked. Thrawn had almost too much stamina, incredibly recovery time, and displayed meticulous dedication to extracting every last possible orgasm from her body. She’d had her share of non-human lovers, but would have been lying if she said anyone came close to doing what he’d done to her. The smile got broader, and Seta took a deep breath. It wouldn’t do to think too much about it, of course. Enjoy it while it lasted. An art forger and Imperial officer couldn’t work, no matter how good the sex was. And he was a kriffing Grand Admiral, something that Seta still couldn’t get her head around. There were like what, three, four of those? It meant, regardless of politics, her talented lover was not a nice man, no matter how good he was in the sack.

Still, apart from being amazing, it had been different than expected. She’d fucked a few Imperials. They usually were rough, expedient, and unconcerned with anything but finishing as fast as possible. Thrawn hadn’t been gentle or overly solicitous, but…

He was large. Large was an understatement, in fact, and when she’d been unable to hide the initial discomfort, he’d stopped. She still couldn’t get over it.

He’d pushed up, withdrawn, the solid weight of him leaving her chest.

“What in the Stalbringion hells are you doing?” she’d gasped in disbelief.

“Penetration is not necessary,” he replied. 

She was happy at least to hear desire coating the clinical words. Add that to the list of reactions she’d witnessed. Thrawn’s bedroom voice was everything she’d hoped—low and tempting and if only he wasn’t saying something so damn ridiculous... 

“We can—” he continued.

Cutting him off with a fierce kiss, Seta grabbed at his bicep, trying to roll him back onto her. He couldn’t be for real, with this droid-speak. She looped an ankle behind his knee and pulled.

“No,” she whispered, seeing him open his mouth to argue. “I won’t break.”

Thank the stars he didn’t protest, but lifted her atop him instead, making her set the angle and depth. 

All pain had quickly become foggy and incidental, dulled by sharper spikes of pleasure that far surpassed any other sensation. And now the only souvenir of her reckless enthusiasm was this exquisite lingering soreness. Everything felt well-used and wonderfully exhausted. 

Seta closed her eyes again, reliving a quick memory of the intensity that had resulted in her current state.

“Good morning.”

The silky voice interrupted her reminiscence, made the smile reappear on her lips, despite her efforts to suppress it. She couldn’t look like a giddy teenager, for fuck’s sake.

Seta pushed up on her palms, sleepy eyes trying to focus on the nearby blob of blue. 

“Good morning.”

She turned over to reach for her discarded sleep shirt. Her hand groped sightlessly on the floor until she saw it had been set neatly on the small night table next to her pillow. _He carries your bags, he folds your clothes, he fucks like a Zeltron on pleaz-mo,_ she grinned. _He’s Mitth’raw’nuruodo, Grand Admiral of the Seventh Fleet._

Shavit, she had to control that smile. Arms slipping through the holes at last, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and groaned at the sweet ache between them. When was the last time she was fucked so hard she couldn’t walk? Far too long.

She sat next to him on the sofa, taking in the array of foreign fruits and pastries laid out on a faux nova crystal tray. He must have visited the galley while she slept.

Reaching for a muja muffin, Seta looked over Thrawn’s bare arm at the datapad he was perusing, half-expecting him to chastise her or move it from view. Instead, Thrawn held it out for her to take. He had pulled his sleep pants back on, but left his shirt off. It was a nice vision to wake up to, Seta had to admit, accepting the datapad.

It was a coded comm from someone, probably a mole or ISB contact, with several holos attached, all of them Rebel recruitment and propaganda posters. Although the color palette was similar to the ones she’d seen in his office, these were unmistakably different. Taking a bite of muffin, she set the remnant down on the table and scrolled through the images. When she reached the bottom, Seta went back to the beginning and repeated her evaluation, knowing Thrawn expected something from her regarding these images.

She swallowed the berry-sweetened bread and turned to look at him.

“Not the same artist,” she said confidently.

“Correct,” he agreed, obviously expecting more.

“Same paints, same studio, I would say, or same supplier.” She tapped one of the more blatantly similar pieces. “So Alderaan again.”

“Yes.”

Something was off about these designs though, and Seta enhanced each in turn, enlarging various areas, trying to find clues in composition or structure. 

“I could easily reproduce these.”

Thrawn nodded.

“_Easily_,” she emphasized. “They don’t have the same matte used on the others, or any distinctive style.”

“Well observed,” he said, and she felt a surge of warmth at the praise, no matter how slight it was. And suddenly, it came to her.

“It’s a droid.”

His thin lips curled at the edges and she knew she was right, words coming in a rush.

“It’s a design droid, perhaps an older model that hasn’t figured out how to imitate more natural compositions. It’s adequately programmed, it’s executing, but…”

“But?” he encouraged.

“No heart,” Seta said, shaking her head and handing him back the datapad. She picked up her muffin once more, biting with relish. “No passion. Mass production and mass consumption, purpose-driven, no true aesthetic.”

Thrawn’s smile grew and he reached for a piece of fruit on the tray.

“Impressive. And correct. We are looking for a droid, in addition to our human creator.”

That leap confused Seta though.

“What good will finding the droid do? Especially with the art being so substandard—” Then she realized her error. 

This wasn’t about art, she’d almost forgotten. Thrawn decided to elucidate her anyway. He really liked the sound of his own voice, Seta thought with only a modicum of exasperation. After all, she liked it too.

“In some ways, locating the droid would be more beneficial than the sentient,” Thrawn needlessly explained. “Its databanks and memory could be a bounty of information on Rebels, sympathizers, locations, assets, and other intelligence.”

“Plus,” Seta added grimly, “you could reprogram it easier than a human to act as a double agent, couldn’t you?”

Thrawn nodded, thoughtfully chewing the berry he’d popped between his lips.

“It would indeed simplify things.”

Droids didn’t have families to kill, Seta thought with some relief. If they could find the bucket of grease before the human artist, lives could be saved… And ultimately more damage may be done to the Rebel’s cause.

Seta shook off the pang of guilt that struck her chest. Not her problem. She was neutral. She would always be neutral. Politics was bad for business. And bad for the health.

The ghost of a shiver crept up her spine, and Seta grit her teeth against it. If she didn’t help the Empire—help _him_—she’d be imprisoned or worse. So for the time being she was on Thrawn’s side. Aiding the Imperials, even if it wasn’t technically voluntary. 

“How much longer until we arrive?” she asked, finishing the last of the muffin, no longer enjoying the taste.

“Approximately fourteen hours.”

“Had enough of subversive advertising that lacks imagination?”

Thrawn dimmed the datapad screen and set it on the table, the hint of a smile flickering across his features. “You have another idea?”

Seta stood up, taking both his hands in hers. 

“I don’t lack imagination,” she teased, smug and satisfied as this powerful man allowed her to lead him back to bed.

~~

The rest of the trip passed quickly. Time settled into a comfortable rhythm. Thrawn relaxed, as much as he ever did, Seta suspected. He’d even consented to watching a couple of the holofilms she’d selected. One was great action without a plot, the other trite and predictably awful, but Seta was thoroughly entertained by both. It felt almost normal, lounging for hours in bed with him. 

Once, it occurred to her that all of this—sex included—in Thrawn’s mind might simply be preparation for his undercover role. Seta smothered the idea as soon as it appeared. She was getting something out of this; she was positive he was as well. However he personally justified it, it wasn’t work. It was fun, distraction.

She contented herself in the thought of the return journey. Thrawn had said he’d keep her no more than a standard week, which meant they would have approximately three standard days on-planet. Three days for his design droid and artist-finding mission. 

Seta also tried not to think about that.

When Captain Deld announced the imminent drop from hyperspace, she’d thrown on clothes and raced to the cockpit. Seta wasn’t going to miss the view of this famous bastion of culture from space. The crew was indulgent, and the co-pilot gave up his chair as the starlines shrank to pinpricks in the firmament.

White clouds caressed the rich azure and green of Alderaan’s lush topography. Seta did her best to memorize its beauty, feeling her heart inexplicably swell in her chest. This was the world that had given the galaxy its most sophisticated botanic art, its most poignant poetry; Alderaan _was_ beauty, shining peacefully in the darkness of space, a beacon of civilization, the epitome of what evolved sentience could achieve.

Despite planning to only witness their exit from hyperspace, Seta stayed in the cockpit along the approach until the co-pilot gently asked for his chair back. Embarrassed that she’d been staring like a child on her first space flight, she retreated to the cabin. Thrawn had dressed in the same black, nondescript clothes he’d worn to visit her studio.

His attire was a visual reminder of the reality their activities had permitted her to avoid, and a wave of melancholy washed over her. The last day and a half were gone. Seta readied her own bags.

“Will we return on this ship?” she asked, expecting the answer to be yes, simply making conversation to cover her somber mood.

“No,” Thrawn answered. “The _Chimaera_ has docked a shuttle in the central spaceport, which we can use to depart whenever the mission has been accomplished. There will be no need to maintain cover at that time.”

Nodding without looking up, she slipped her EZel Pro into her pack and tried not to think about what came next. She knew Thrawn considered all Rebels traitors. Both sides had reasonable arguments, depending on where in the galaxy you were, in Seta’s opinion. Imperials didn’t bother her on Hesperidium, but they certainly oppressed the masses in other places, while the Rebellion blew up weapons factories with civilians inside. She’d long avoided any lengthy contemplation related to which side was worse. 

But the fact that Alderaan was known as a hotbed of Rebel activity and recruitment made Seta wonder if there was more value to their cause than she’d previously allowed herself to admit. After all, if Alderaan produced the finest culture and most brilliant scholars, would it not follow that their philosophy related to governance and democracy was also the best option for galactic rule?

“What are you thinking?” Thrawn had stepped to her side, his tone too polished to be soft. It made her jump, she’d been so wrapped up in her thoughts.

“I’m thinking about the Rebels on Alderaan,” she replied, hoping that was a safe response. It seemed to appease him.

“We will find at least one,” he said, something sinister in the promise. “And perhaps many.”

Seta made no answer, securing her luggage and going to stand at the viewport as the ship broke the atmosphere and made its way to the spacedock.

~~

Thrawn—Honos, she self-corrected—had arranged for them to stay in a suite at Alderaan’s most posh hotel. Saying he had business, he'd disappeared shortly after they had arrived. Surprised at being left alone, Seta decided to wander the hotel, perhaps even the city, but when she reached the turbolift, a stormtrooper intercepted her. When they had arrived, she’d assumed it had been posted there due to some VIP staying on their floor. She hadn’t guessed she was the VIP.

“Excuse me ma’am,” his filtered voice cracked through the white helmet. “Please return to your room.”

Heart sinking, she did, the elation of being in the galaxy’s cultural center vanishing along with her false sense of freedom. She was still a prisoner, and although Thrawn was fucking her, he also obviously didn’t trust her.

She debated confronting him about it when he returned, but her courage failed her. Instead she stomped around the suite in a temper, making it clear she was in a Mood. Thrawn seemed not to notice, which was maddening. To make things worse, when she decided it was pointless as well as foolish to deny herself what he could offer, he shook his head, rejecting her overtures. Seta felt more stupid than before. Well, kriff him. She didn’t have to help him anyway. She could go to the auction floor and enjoy the experience without contributing to his sting operation. It would be easy enough to pretend not to notice any evidence they stumbled upon.

The idea cheered her, and after a shower and room service, Seta felt normal enough to interact like an adult.

“Can we leave the hotel?” she asked, in as sweet a tone as she could manage. “I’ve always wanted to visit the Museum of Antiquities.”

That got his attention, and Thrawn lifted his head from the datapad. “To view the Lodin collection?”

She nodded, unsurprised that he was informed about the reproductions the museum housed. Thrawn turned off his device and stood, considering.

“I’ve seen them. The quality of the forgeries is poor.”

She grinned, fishing for a compliment. “Compared to—?”

He cocked his head as if it were a strange question. “Compared to the originals, of course.” At her scowl, he relented. “Your work is far superior,” he smiled, and added “darling.”

With this unexpected evidence of Thrawn’s good humor, Seta was unable to stay in her foul mood. _He_ was teasing _her_—this was a first. She was quick to take advantage of his indulgence, and excited at the prospect of leaving.

“Well, we can check it out? Please?” She picked up her pack. “And then go to the Central University Art Gallery. I’ve heard its collection is amazing.”

“Very well,” he agreed, reaching for the glareshades. Seta tossed him his cloak. If nothing else, she was lucky that her Imperial escort was an art lover. This trip wouldn’t be entirely wasted.

~~

That evening, the Quintuple A officially opened. In his role as a lesser-known gangster, Thrawn insisted they had to attend the party and save the actual perusing of the art on offer until the following day. Impatient, Seta tried to play the part of a Pantoran criminal’s moll, but it was harder than expected. There were so many fascinating people at the event, she wanted to have real conversations, not vapid imitations of them. 

Fingers plucking at the sides of her incredible new dress (Thrawn hadn’t presented it as a gift, more as a uniform), Seta kept her smile plastered on and listened with as much attention as she could muster. How many of these well-dressed members of Alderaanian society were secretly supporting the Rebellion?

A friendly-looking man sidled into the conversation, introducing himself as a senator. Seta stiffened, but Thrawn seemed at ease. The Grand Admiral wasn’t a bad actor. Wearing yellow-colored lenses and staying in the darker fringes of the room, he looked as mysterious and wealthy as his cover demanded. Thrawn smiled brilliantly and constantly, so much that at times he was practically unrecognizable. He also gave the appearance of drinking a great deal, despite her certainty that he wasn’t. More than one woman had cozied up to his perfectly tailored side, and Seta noticed he was dismissive of no one. When she felt jealous glares from someone, of any gender or race, she deftly excused herself—the refresher, the bar, to get some air—to make sure that Thrawn had every opportunity to get the information he was seeking.

Her latest rival was a duchess from some Mid Rim moon whose jewelry was as blinding as Thrawn’s smile. Murmuring that she needed to find a bite to eat, Seta was off again. She didn’t mind the respites away from the group—they were starting to be the highlight of her night. 

“Hi. Haven’t we met?”

The speaker was at her back. Seta discounted the greeting, figuring that it was directed at someone else, but then a tap followed on her shoulder. 

She turned around to see someone she had indeed met before—Cary Janson. He was involved in food distribution in the Tanaab sector, and had used her as a “broker,” or so he thought, to source some original paeans from one of Norulac’s only celebrated painters. She located holos of the works he wanted after some painstaking research, and was pretty proud of the job she’d done copying and aging them before selling him two of the collection. A few months later, she’d “found” another, and her grateful client had been extremely generous with compensation. 

Back then, Seta thought Janson had a little crush, and she had played to it. Couldn’t hurt, in her business, to have the customers be fond of her. It made them happier about parting with their credits, anyway. And less likely to retaliate if there were issues with their purchases.

“Cary! What a fabulous surprise,” she gushed, mind already plotting how to avoid unpleasantness as a result of conflicting identities.

“I thought it was you, Ergane,” he grinned. Janson wasn’t a bad looking guy, a bit round in the face, shaggy brown hair and green-flecked hazel eyes. He looked happy to see her, so that must mean he was still pleased with his “original” paintings. “Let me get you a drink.”

“I’d be more impressed,” she joked, “if it wasn’t an open bar.”

Janson shrugged and ordered them both glasses of the house white, which was divine. He clinked his flute to hers, drinking deeply, before jerking his head in the Thrawn’s direction.

“A customer?”

She gave a coy smile, shaking her head. 

“Really?!” The hazel eyes rounded. “He’s Pantoran, right? I didn’t think…”

“Didn’t think what?” she asked innocently, sipping her wine.

“Well,” he squinted more at her cohort. “He looks a little…unsavory, Ergane. Plus,” Janson added, voice lowering, “I’ve heard about the Appeasers doing some nasty dealings with the Empire. And most of the Pantorans out this way are mixed up in shady businesses, trading with Hutts, market manipulation, that sort of thing.”

Seta wrinkled her forehead, trying to decide how best to respond. The comment made her think Janson had Rebel leanings, but it was always a risky subject. She was an artist, not a kriffing spy. Thankfully she had done enough deceitful dealings in the former role that she should be able to adapt to the new one.

“He treats me well, Cary,” she sighed, “and I don’t really follow politics.” She raised an eyebrow, hoping it was more curious-looking than calculated. “How about you?”

His expression turned a bit weary. “My family cares more than I do, but the Empire hasn’t done anything to help our business. They tax us to the brink of poverty and accept bribes from pirates and smugglers who cut into our profits.” Trying to smile, Janson only succeeded in looking sad. 

“So as much as I try to avoid the subject, it comes up.”

Nodding sympathetically, Seta laid a hand on his arm, trying to ignore Thrawn, who had just glanced in her direction. “Well, do you really think the Alliance could do any better?”

His eyes reacted to the audacity of her question, but he kept his expression even. Interesting. And more indicative than his earlier comment that Janson was involved in something he shouldn’t be.

“You’ll find a lot of people think that,” he said, his tone serious. “Especially around these parts.”

“So I’ve heard,” she replied, deciding that she wasn’t going to learn much more from him. “If you’ll excuse me, I think Honos is getting a little jealous.” She winked, pleased to see a blush creep up Janson’s face. “Good luck with the pirates, Cary. And let me know if I can help in any way.”

She headed back over towards Thrawn, pecking a kiss on his cheek in apology for the benefit of his conversation partners. The duchess was no longer part of the group.

“Sorry, love, an old friend.”

Making no comment, he only nodded, squeezing her free hand once, almost painfully, and continued the conversation. When she glanced back in Janson’s direction, she saw him speaking with a petite yet regal woman with stunningly-coiffed brown hair. She was stylishly draped in complicated layers of lavender and white. They both turned to look at her, then quickly away. Too late, Seta thought. There was something going on. She only hoped it wasn’t related to her cover this evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ergane: epithet of Athena, goddess of artisans  
Cary Janson is indeed related to Rebel pilot Wes Janson.


	5. Adroitness

That night, Thrawn seemed in good spirits. He refused to answer most of her questions, though, and finally took her to bed to shut her up. It was a solution which seemed to suit them both.

In the morning, however, he was all business. They arrived fashionably late to the opening of the Auction Floor. There would be 24 standard hours of time to peruse the offered artworks, and the following two days would be filled with the auctions themselves. 

Seta gasped when they stepped onto the arthouse floor. It was basically a hangar-sized warehouse, bursting with artwork of every description. Static displays, holoart, industrial and avant-garde, as well as the more traditional sculptures and paintings filled every available space. What kind of world was this, she wondered, that produced so many creative minds, so many talented souls? It was breathtaking in the literal sense.

Thrawn was single-minded, but willing to browse as they searched for a clue as to their Rebel painters. Periodically Seta would pull out her datapad, making a quick note or taking a surreptitious holo (they were strictly forbidden on the floor) for later study.

For the most part, her companion ignored her, lost in his own thoughts as they wandered. Every so often, he would ask a question related to paint composition, style, or technique. It was rare that she felt he didn’t already know the answer. After her initial concern about the size of their task, Seta let herself enjoy the artwork and even the company as they strolled together down the aisles. Thrawn seemed content at their pace and progress through the building, and didn’t complain when she stopped to take in something that was particularly interesting.

After almost three hours, she saw it. Pleased that she’d spotted it before him, Seta gripped his hand, standing on her tiptoes like she was going to whisper a secret in his ear. And of course, that was basically the point.

“It’s her,” she said, with an odd mixture of excitement and sadness. It was too bad this Rebel artist’s ego hadn’t allowed her to resist displaying her work where an Imperial art snob would identify it—and therefore, her.

The palette was different, the colors ugly and neon, a strange affront to the natural softness of the subject, which was an idyllic landscape. But Seta was certain. This was the artist. Thrawn seemed less so, eyes narrowing as he tried to see the clues that had been obvious to her more creative mind. She felt the moment of his understanding, his hand loosening in hers, his jaw relaxing as his gaze went to the signature on the lower right of the canvas.

“Tessime.”

Indeed. Tessime. A Rebel whose identity was no longer hidden from the Empire.

As they stared, a droid curator approached with a solicitous air.

“Greetings gentles. Would you like more information about this artwork?”

“Yes,” Thrawn answered, his voice even and calm. Seta heard menace in the word, and shivered.

“_Wuitho Fantasy_ is the title. A work finely executed by one of Alderaan’s most promising young artists, Janray Tessime. The medium is oil and plastpastel, on a rather daring canvas handwoven from starblossom stem fibers. The result is this unusual texture that highlights the surreal, futuristic coloration of the subject. The starting bid for this piece is anticipated to be 18,000 credits.”

“18,000 credits?” Seta balked. For a sale price, it was already exorbitant, but for a starting bid? Astronomical, even for high quality. And this, she had to admit, was mediocre, regardless of personal taste.

The droid tutted sympathetically. “Yes, mistress. The difficulty of harvesting and creating the fibers used for the canvas, I am informed, makes this a reasonable low-range price for the artwork. Do you have any other questions?”

“May we contact the artist directly?” Thrawn asked, “for private commissions?”

“I’m afraid that Mistress Tessime does not accept commissions. However other artists at her studio do, if you would like to procure an alternative work from the same school?”

“Indeed I would,” Thrawn answered, yellow eyes glowing so bright Seta was afraid the red would burn through his lenses.

~~

Hand-in-hand, like sightseeing tourists, they strolled to the University Sector in the heart of Aldera. It wasn’t far, and on the way Thrawn explained his plan. Reconnaissance lay at the heart of it, to determine if Tessime was amenable to being recruited or if it would serve the Empire better to make an example of her. The droid, however, Thrawn placed equal if not more importance on. They had to identify which of the design droids at the school were responsible for the Rebel posters.

Seta felt nauseous. This was all beyond her comfort zone. Swindling and lying to the stupid and wealthy was one thing, but entrapping anti-Imperial artists was quite another. If Thrawn sensed her misery, he gave no sign, fingers clasped in hers, his other hand holding his cloak together near his waist. By the blaster strapped there, she had little doubt.

The art studio was about five times the size of her own, well-lit and bustling. It surprised Seta, since she would have expected the talent to be out hustling their goods to rich attendees and wooing future patrons during the Quintuple A. This activity hardly seemed justified when the art world’s wealthiest financiers were just across town.

A TC-series protocol droid greeted them at the entrance.

“Welcome to Collus Atelier,” he boomed, voice programmed to impress. “Would you like a tour? Purchase? Commission? Or to join our collective?”

“Perhaps all of the above,” Thrawn answered, with a smile that gave her chills. 

“But of course, Master. Please identify yourself for my databanks and future transactions.”

Preliminaries out of the way, they set off on a tour of the facility. The students and artists disregarded them, for the most part, absorbed in their art. Only in the print-making section, where three sentients and one droid were at work, was their presence acknowledged. One of the artists, a Duros, nodded politely and swiftly left the room. The others paused in their duties, making small talk about the challenges of mass-production with Thrawn. The droid, Seta noticed, had paint stains on his appendages. Leaving the others in conversation, she approached him.

“Are you also a painter?” she asked gently. 

“Yes, mistress, I am a second-generation design model RT-4L. I am a newcomer to the Collus Atelier, however I am pleased to state that I have already contributed several original designs to the workshop’s portfolio.”

“I would love to see them,” Seta responded, holding her breath.

“That is very kind,” the droid said, without a hint of concern. “However I am unable to comply at this time.”

“Oh?”

Suddenly the Duros was back, walking with a purpose towards her. “Excuse me, I’m afraid Artie here is needed in the color shop.”

The droid, Artie, wobbled in apology and set off, as the Duros looked with undisguised suspicion at her.

“You like design droids?”

“I find them fascinating,” Seta replied. “As an artist myself, I wonder at how they can hope to compete with sentient-produced work. It must be a difficult existence.”

The man seemed to soften slightly. “Artie does all right. There are some benefits to being a droid painter.”

She laughed, trying to allay any fears. “Not needing to sleep would be something I’d benefit from myself.”

A faint smile, and the Duros excused himself, leaving Seta to return to Thrawn’s side.

“Ready, Lymnia?” he asked quietly.

“Yes, I’m quite impressed,” she smiled for the benefit of the students. After a few more exchanges with the droid tour guide, they walked out into the glorious afternoon.

~~

She reported without compunction to Thrawn back at the suite, relieved they hadn’t run into the human Janray Tessime. Thrawn was convinced that the entire Atelier was a Rebel cover. He patiently explained, upon seeing her incomprehension, the reason for the jacked-up prices on the artworks. 

“The workshop is financing the Rebellion,” he sneered as if it were obvious. “Not only can we determine which artists are sympathizers, but the actual bidders are complicit. They bid on these pieces not to buy art, but to donate to the Rebel cause. Willingly. Knowingly.” The smile turned into a smirk. “We need only to monitor the purchases of Collus Atelier art at the auction this week to learn who among Alderaan’s elite are secretly committing treason.”

Seta balked. “Surely some bidders genuinely like the art? Without ulterior motives?”

Thrawn dismissed her protest. “You saw the quality of the Tessime we saw today. It was an eyesore, the color garish and poorly chosen. Its use with such an overtly sentimental subject is to all but guarantee its place beneath the attention of any serious collector.” He shook his head, and when he next spoke, Seta heard admiration in his voice. “They have this well-planned. The artist is quite capable of doing acceptable quality work. This is an intentional entry to raise credits for sedition.”

The nausea she’d felt earlier solidified, and Thrawn didn’t look as attractive as he once had. Malice didn’t become him, Seta thought, wondering at her own naiveté. She’d been sleeping with this man, finding him engaging and interesting, but he was dedicated to a cause she couldn’t understand or believe in. Seta felt sick.

“I’m going to clean up and change,” she stood, indicating the refresher.

Thrawn nodded absently, reaching for his comm. No doubt he would be sending some sort of coded transmission to his Star Destroyer, something that would guarantee the end of this industrious Atelier and strike a blow to the Rebellion.

~~

The following morning, Seta woke up with a headache, probably stress-induced. Thrawn seemed absorbed in his own thoughts, but ultimately she decided it was better to know what to expect than stay in the dark. Dragging herself from the bed, she padded over to find something to wear. 

The first day, Thrawn had returned to the room with parcels of clothing, having deemed her packed wardrobe inadequate for the mission. She liked his unconventional taste, even though the majority of outfits were the furthest thing from comfortable any woman could imagine. His response to that observation had been that it wasn’t his taste they were suiting, rather Honos’.

“So what’s the plan?” she asked over a yawn, critically eyeing some slinky black pants that looked like they were woven by a drunken ginntho.

Thrawn was already perfectly put together, his hair a little more obviously coiffed. It was getting long, and she liked it, as much as she didn’t want to admit it.

“I spoke with the ISB,” he said, watching her dress without any hint of either interest or embarrassment. “I will be meeting them today at the auction house to point out the artworks of importance so they can track the bidding. Afterwards…” He crossed his arms, leaning against a marbled column in the suite. “...they will detain Tessime. And the droid you spoke with.”

“Artie,” she supplied, struggling with strange fasteners on the low cut russet blouse she’d chosen.

“Artie,” he repeated, as if it were a stupid name. Weren’t all droid names idiotic? Annoyed for no reason, Seta sat back on the bed, cross-legged.

“And I get to stay here.” It wasn’t a question. Thrawn was deliberate in his speech. If he had meant “we,” he would have said “we.” 

“Yes.”

“I can’t go to the museum? Or the palace?” Seta indicated her nice new clothes with a sweeping gesture. “Or do anything fun at all?” Her voice was plaintive, but she didn’t care. She wanted him to say she was his prisoner, if that was indeed the reality. Otherwise, why keep her from moving about?

“We went to the museum the day we arrived.”

With a sigh, Seta lay back on the bed, looking at the abstract fresco on the ceiling. 

“I thought I was helping you. A partner. But it’s not like that at all.”

She didn’t expect a response, but Thrawn came over and sat on the bed next to her. “You have been helpful,” he countered, his voice unreadable.

“You’re using me. There’s a difference.”

His face wasn’t visible from her prone position, which was probably a good thing. Because when Thrawn spoke again, Seta got the sense that he was distinctly displeased.

“I asked you to come.” 

He paused; she heard his audible respiration and wondered if he was trying for calm.

“I did not command you.”

Sitting up, Seta met his burning stare. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“Did I threaten you?” His tone itself implied threat, now.

She knew he hadn’t, not directly. That didn’t mean she could have refused.

“No.”

“Have I mistreated you?”

His raised eyebrow was a little too knowing, and Seta felt a rush of heat low in her stomach.

“No.”

He studied her, and her guts knotted. She had always wanted to go to Alderaan, to the Quintuple A. And here she was, even if the experience wasn’t quite how she had imagined it. In the company of an intelligent, well-cultured, extremely gifted in the sack Imperial Grand Admiral.

She was an idiot.

“May I visit the palace?” she whispered, miserable.

“No,” he said, standing up. “For your own safety. I am sorry.” She didn’t believe him. “Perhaps tomorrow,” he continued, avoiding her eyes, “before we depart.”

A short time later, yellow lenses in place, blaster at his leg, and cloak well-secured, Thrawn left.

Frustrated, Seta took off her fancy clothes and went back to bed.

~~

She awoke when the sun was low in the sky. Stretching and looking out the window, she marveled at the pinks and oranges that painted the afternoon. Alderaan was as beautiful as advertised. No wonder the people of this world had no love for the Empire. Everything Imperial was drab and utilitarian. Everything here was lush and hedonistic. Alderaan was the opposite of what the Empire expounded, and with a stab of sorrow, Seta wondered if its people would survive Imperial rule. She hoped that the planet’s long tradition of philosophy and learning would allow the populace to accept the inevitable, if the alternative was destruction. A shudder ran through her, a haze clouding her vision for a moment, as Seta almost lost her balance.

Trapped in the room, Seta drew a bath and sank into the tub with her EZel. She flipped through her recent sketches, looked at some holos she’d snapped of the auction. It reminded her that she’d never asked Thrawn about the painting in his office. Closing her eyes, she examined it in her memory. It was magnificent. She had to reproduce it. She would be able to make a fortune selling it, no matter if the artist was unknown or disgraced. Tonight, she vowed, tonight she’d find out where he’d bought it. Or stolen it from.

~~

It was past midnight. Not _much_ past midnight, but Thrawn hadn’t returned. Seta paced, confused, debating sleep or distraction. She could watch the holonet, she supposed. Turning on the projector, she found the HoloNews and listened for any stories that could be reasonably linked to the Empire. The Quintuple A was the lead item. Nothing criminal, no violence, no thefts. Of course, not, she smiled. Alderaan was as renowned for its peaceful society as it was for its culture. If Thrawn and the ISB were causing trouble, it wasn’t being reported.

A loud banging on the door jerked her into a panic, adrenaline flooding her veins.

“Yes?” she called, trying to keep the alarm from her voice.

“Ma’am, it’s ISB Tactical Unit commander CF-425. I’ve received orders to evacuate you immediately.”

Seta pushed the security cam control and saw a black-clad, helmeted trooper. He was alone. But it could be a trick. Where was Thrawn? Why hadn’t he given her some kind of code phrase or some way to know what to do in a situation like this?

“Ma’am,” the trooper’s voice was growing agitated. “I’m sorry but my orders are to evacuate you. If you don’t open the door I’ll have to break it down.”

So he’d take her by force if she resisted. Great. She opened the door and held up a finger, trying to stall.

“Please allow me to get dressed and collect my things,” Seta said. 

“You have thirty seconds,” CF-425 stated impassively, calmer now that he was with her in the room. His E-11 was held at the ready against his chest armor. 

Cursing, she tugged on her old pants and threw on a jacket, stuffing everything she could find into her shoulder pack. The valise would have to stay, but luckily it was mainly full of basics. Nothing irreplaceable. The easel, that was what she couldn’t lose.

“Ready,” she said, thankful that the soldier had given her considerably more than thirty seconds. 

“Follow me, ma’am,” he said, running down the hall. She jogged after him, heart pounding. They took the service turbolift to the ground floor, where a dingy speeder was waiting. This didn’t look like an Imperial or ISB transport.

“Wait a minute—” she started, but the flash of a stun blast knocked her into oblivion.

~~

Déjà vu, Seta thought, waking up with harsh lighting, her hands in binders, and a blaster in a stranger’s hand nearby. Unsurprisingly, there was no sign of the ISB, or Thrawn. Squinting against the painful glare, she tried to determine something about her surroundings. Looked like a duracrete room, a basement or something similar, but smaller. Three people were staring at her, two of them armed. All wore plain black masks over their heads, with only the eyes visible.

“There’s water on the floor near your right leg,” a woman’s voice said. The words made her realize how thirsty she was, and Seta groped with her bound hands for the glass. She drank the entire thing, parched, and set it carefully back on the floor.

“Who are you? What do you want?” It seemed like the right thing to ask, even though Seta wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer.

“That’s what we’re asking you.” A man’s voice this time, something familiar about it. “Who are you really? Why did you come to Alderaan?”

At least that meant she was still on the same planet. And hopefully Thrawn, if he was still alive, would care enough to try to find out who was holding her. After all, she had information. She might warn the Rebels of his plan, if it meant saving her life. Wouldn’t he want to prevent that? A chill tingled her scalp. Or maybe he would just have her killed to keep her from talking. Her eyes darted around the room, checking for windows, sniper locations. How did things turn so badly so quickly?

“I’m not sure what you mean,” she tried, relieved there were no windows. “Who do you _think_ I am? You’ve made a mistake. I can’t imagine why anyone would kidnap me…”

“We know you aren’t Lymnia, the name you were using at the opening,” the woman spoke again. “And we know you aren’t Ergane, the art broker.” 

_Dammit Janson_, Seta thought. So these must be Rebels. 

“Some of us think you’re a spy. Others just a stupid criminal here to steal some art.”

Seta didn’t have to fake surprise. Steal art?! She didn’t steal art. Copied, sure, but she’d never stolen a piece in her life.

A small laugh from the other side of the room. “All right, not a thief. So enlighten us, why don’t you?” This time a man’s voice.

“Do you know Cary Janson?” she asked, thinking this could be her best option. “He’s here, on planet. He’s done business with me. He’ll vouch for me.”

Silence greeted this information. The three of them looked at one another, then back at her. She met their covered heads with her own stony stare.

Minutes passed. The wordless battle was finally surrendered by the woman.

“Tell us the truth.”

They _had_ to be Rebels. Maybe Thrawn’s interest in the Atelier had alerted them to some off-world danger. She tried to think, opened her mouth to speak, and the woman spoke again.

“The truth.”

Scowling, Seta was glad for the ripple of anger the admonishment produced. Anger she could work with.

“I _am_ telling you the truth. I work in the art sector, procuring hard-to-find masterpieces for discerning clients. I’m here to see what’s on offer at the auction. Maybe buy some things and resell them later.”

“You’re not here alone.”

The scowl became a glare. “I’m here with a collector. More money than taste.” She tried to sound uncaring, which wasn’t hard. “We haven’t been together long, it’s nothing serious. But he promised to take me to Alderaan and buy me some art.” Seta injected real annoyance in her voice; it was easily summoned. “We went to the MUSEUM! The first day! Is that why you think I’m a thief? That I want to steal some stupid copies of Cold War paintings?!”

The group whispered briefly amongst themselves, the only word she could hear was “museum.” Had Rebel agents been following them the entire time?

“Tell us more about your Pantoran friend.”

Seta snorted, tamping down the sense of hope in her chest. If they focused on Thrawn instead of her, that might mean they believed her an innocent. She could get out of this. She’d been in tight spots before.

“What’s to know? I think his family is a bit shady, but he seems on the level,” she began. Couldn’t hurt to seem too trusting. “His name is Honos Shen. I met him a couple months ago and he’s fun.” Seta shrugged, looking down at her binders before returning her eyes to the trio. “If he’s mixed up in something, I promise it has nothing to do with me.”

“I don’t believe you,” said the woman, quite plainly. “Probably some truth in what you say, but lies as well.” The others seemed to defer to her opinion unfortunately, and Seta felt herself losing the room. “Maybe you need some time to think.” The woman stood, somehow majestic in her black mask and nondescript clothing. 

“Can I have more water?” Seta asked, wondering how long she’d be able to keep up this charade. In any case, whenever she broke, _if_ she broke, she could always blame fear of the Empire as the reason for holding out. Rebels should sympathize with that, at least.

The three of them left without another word, but one of the men rapidly returned with a fresh glass, taking the empty one. He sat back down. Her guard then. After a few attempts to ask him questions, Seta gave up. What had they done with her pack? 

She lost track of time. There were no windows in the room, so she had no idea how long she’d been waiting when the shift changed. The woman returned, a blaster in one hand, her EZel Pro in the other. She dismissed the other guard and sat down, crossing her legs.

“Hi,” Seta tried, wondering if she could try for sympathy based on gender.

“Hello,” the woman returned. Her voice was cultured and pleasant, as if she were sitting on a park bench in the Botanical Gardens rather than a dank cell with a prisoner.

“Can I—”

“Let me ask the questions,” the words more clipped now.

“All right,” Seta agreed, feeling that acquiescing, however pointless, helped her maintain some illusion of control.

“How many Pantorans have you met,” the woman asked, enunciating as if speaking to a child, “who have red eyes?”

The heart stopped in her chest for a fraction of a second. They’d sliced her datapad. Thank the stars she only kept sketches and brief notes there. But this…this was bad.

“I was just playing around with colors,” she started, but could sense the other woman’s skepticism and changed tack. “But to answer your question, just Honos. He’s sensitive about it, told me it’s some sort of birth defect. That’s why he wears special lenses.” Seta forced a laugh. “I thought maybe it was an inbreeding thing, so I never pushed.”

“You’re lying.”

“Lying about Honos having red eyes?”

“No. Lying about why.”

They both were silent, Seta glaring. 

“You’re an artist,” the woman changed the subject.

“I dabble.”

“You’re excellent,” she said, the words sounding more accusatory than complimentary. “You’re not a dabbler.”

Seta shrugged. “Thank you.”

“Do you want to know my theory, talented artist with a not-quite-Pantoran boyfriend?”

“Very much,” Seta retorted. “Then hopefully we can clear up this mess and I can go home.”

“You and your boyfriend are up to no good. You are working with the Rebellion. You’re here to provide financial support to Rebel scum and their sympathizers. Except you’re so inept you couldn’t even do that correctly, so instead you land in my lap. And I can’t decide if I should pity you for being so bad at your job or turn you over to the Imperials for execution.”

Words couldn’t convey the surprise that smacked her at these words. Seta was beyond confused. These people _had_ to be Rebels. Had to be. So this petite woman with the noble bearing made zero sense. Then it hit her. What better way to trap an Imperial spy than accuse her of Rebel sympathies? Protesting one’s true affiliation to prove innocence, they would have their confession. All these thoughts tangled in Seta’s mind, competing for dominance, even as she wanted to confide and explain to this woman. None of this was her choice. 

She was neutral. Always had been. Always wanted to be.

“I have no love for the Empire,” she said carefully, “but I’m not a Rebel either.” Seta drew her knees to her chest, knowing this was important. “My work requires me to deal with many different people from many different backgrounds. I can’t afford to be political.”

“Let’s hope the Empire believes you,” the woman said, getting to her feet, just as there was a crash from outside the door, then a thud. Drawing the blaster, she moved to the corner of the room on the same wall as the entryway, ready to shoot anyone who tried to enter. She moved smoothly, with speed and confidence.

Seta also stood awkwardly, trying to find a weapon. If it was some sort of Imperial raid, maybe they would shoot first and sort the bodies later.

She shattered the drinking glass against the duracrete floor, selecting the biggest shard and palming it. The woman nodded at her, and Seta smiled. She liked her, even though her captor’s mistrust was problematic. It was an odd thing, but true.

A clang on the door. Someone was trying to break in.

“I’m unarmed,” the woman yelled to be heard over the noise. “Don’t shoot.”

Eyes widening at the lie, Seta was torn. If it was Thrawn, or someone come to rescue her— Then she saw the blaster pointed at her, the woman’s hooded head shaking slowly. Ah, so they weren’t allies. Definitely not.

Another creak as the durasteel door protested the force being used against it. Then silence.

The woman crouched low, blaster turning once more to the portal. Seta bent low as well, holding her bound wrists out like a shield in front of her face. A hiss, a sizzling sound, and then the door slid open. No one came through. No one spoke. 

“Help!” Seta screamed, the silence driving her mad. “She’ll shoot me!”

A black sleeved arm darted around the side of the door at floor level, the flash of a stun blast blinding. The woman in the corner crumpled to the floor.

“Any others?” It was Thrawn’s voice. Seta could have fainted from relief.

“Just me, I swear.”

He walked calmly into the room, and kicked the blaster out of the woman’s hand.

“Take it.”

Seta picked the weapon up, but it felt strange in her fingers, its weight more frightening than reassuring. Thrawn looked alert and unscathed as he stood before her, scanning her condition. Seemingly satisfied, he produced a codekey. She lifted her wrists, still holding the blaster. Seconds later, the binders clattered to the floor. Thrawn headed for the door. Seta retrieved her easel first, slipping it in the waistband of her pants, before following him out into the corridor.

They were in the Atelier’s basement. Going up the steps, they passed several bodies, including the Duros she'd spoken with on their tour. Some looked stunned, a few, permanently.

“Are you alone?” she whispered. Thrawn held up a fist, apparently some type of military command she didn’t know, but readily interpreted as a “be quiet” gesture.

Near the exit, he reached stiffly for his comm. Seta barely heard as he called in the information for ISB. Troops were already on their way, the voice on the other end promised. Closing the comm, they moved outside, weapons at the ready. It was then she saw a dark stain spreading along his side.

“You’re hurt.”

“Yes.” Typical taciturn response, she thought. Like a droid. A pang of fear hit hard, laced with real concern. Thrawn was obviously injured, and her brain couldn’t process it. She’d seen his scars, knew he wasn’t invincible, but how—

A small whistling noise and strange breeze were the only warnings they had before a flurry of flechettes whizzed by in the air. Far more dangerous than a stun blast, these little arrows could rip them both to shreds. The sharp durasteel pellets were designed to inflict painful and lethal damage.

Following Thrawn’s lead, she ducked and ran. He flattened against the building, yanking her hard next to him as they inched their way around to the side.

“Can you drive that?” Thrawn’s voice was cracked and raspy as he indicated a speeder bike a few meters away.

“Yes,” Seta nodded, running straight at the seat and jumping on. Footsteps could be heard pounding in the distance, coming closer. “Hang on.”

He straddled the seat behind her, one arm wrapped around her waist, the other firing blaster bolts to deter their pursuers as she kicked the bike into gear. There was a grinding noise as it stalled, then a roar as it caught and came back to life. Seta pushed for maximum speed, hearing a strange exhale from her passenger. Another “oomph” as Thrawn leaned heavily against her back.

“Spaceport,” he whispered, barely audible above the engine.

Seta had no idea where they were, or how to get them where they were supposed to go. The Atelier was in the University Sector, so it couldn’t be too far, but she hadn’t paid attention on their walk. Panicked, she headed towards the tallest buildings she could see, expecting they marked the downtown area of Aldera. As they grew larger, the streets thankfully became well-marked. Seta took a hard right, following the signs for the spaceport. 

“Mitth’raw’nuruodo?” she called as the bike glided through the rows of space docks. There was no answer behind her. “Thrawn?”

She idled the engine, desperately searching her brain. A shuttle. A shuttle for a Star Destroyer? No, had to be something more innocuous, less obvious. There was a plethora of pleasure yachts, passenger transports, personal ships, and small cruisers docked here. There was absolutely no way she could guess correctly, and Thrawn had passed out. 

Seta twisted, careful to keep the bulk of him evenly leaning against her body, and groped at his waist. Where was his comm? She knew he had one, had just seen him use it. Her fingers gripped the empty holster, travelled the slack muscle of his thigh. There was a small oval in his pants. Grunting, she pushed it through the material, getting the small transmitter to the top of his pocket and grabbing it. 

She had no idea what frequency to use, and simply opened the channel.

“Imperial Security Bureau, how may I direct your call?”

Rolling her eyes, Seta tried to think. “Can you patch me to the _Chimaera_ please? It’s urgent.”

“I am not authorized for external comm connections.”

Great, a droid. Maybe she could bluff it. “This is an authorization override for an emergency involving a Grand Admiral. Could you please connect me to the _Chimaera_? Your programming permits this in emergencies.” At least, she hoped it did.

“Yes, ma’am, but I need an emergency authorization code.”

“Use the last known emergency authorization code in your databanks, please.” Ridiculous, but worth a shot.

“Connecting.”

Seta groaned. Thrawn was sliding lower on the seat, and maybe dying, and she was sitting here trying to get him to a shuttle’s medbay. Why didn’t she just go to the hospital? After all, Alderaan wouldn’t want a Grand Admiral to die on their turf, would they? Or perhaps they did? That was an unpleasant thought.

“This is the ISD _Chimaera_ ops center. State your operating code and emergency.”

“I’m with your commander who has been attacked. On Alderaan and trying to get to your shuttle. I don’t know what shuttle it is, but he told me it was here. Get me to it. Please.” Couldn’t hurt to be polite, right?

“May I speak with the Grand Admiral, ma’am?”

The voice was steady and Seta was impressed despite her current state of panic.

“He’s unconscious. And he’s going to stay unconscious and maybe die if you don’t tell me which medbay I can drag him into.” Seta tried to growl it with authority, but was too tired. The argument sounded more like a plea.

A moment’s silence, then a decision was made on the other end. 

“Are you at the Aldera central spaceport now?”

“Yes.”

“The shuttle landing lights will flash four times, go off, and then flash twice. This sequence will repeat until you find the shuttle. Please keep the comm open.”

“I have to drive.”

“Understood.”

Shoving the comm down the front of her pants next to the blaster (the EZel was still jammed in the back), Seta continued along the docking lanes. She saw landing lights in the distance and sped up. It wasn’t an Imperial class shuttle, or even something she would have recognized as belonging to a Star Destroyer. But Seta didn’t really know ships anyway. 

She pulled up, counting the flashes. 

“Found it,” she said.

The response came muffled from her pants. “Access ramp lowering now. The medbay is on the main level to your immediate right. The ship has a slave circuit and will depart once you confirm the Admiral is safely aboard. Please acknowledge.”

“Yup,” she said, riding the bike straight up the ramp. There was no way she could carry Thrawn’s dead weight. Checking to make sure that no one was following them, not that she could do much if they were, Seta turned around on the seat. Thrawn’s head lolled against her bicep as she tested for a pulse in his throat. It was there. Not strong, not weak. So not too bad. 

“I confirm we’re aboard. Thank you.”

“Transferring you to _Chimaera_ medbay, please keep the channel open.”

The chief medical officer came on before she could argue. Seta explained she was going to drag Thrawn to the medbay first, and set the comm down.

The Chiss was solid muscle, she knew well. And while typically that was quite a wonderful thing, it currently was not at all helpful—particularly when she needed to keep his back facing up. 

Thrawn had been shot during their escape. Blood and little grey shards were sticking out of his left side. Above the kidney, in a human. She didn’t know if Thrawn’s were located there too, but guessed it was likely. His anatomy was similar elsewhere…

Grunting, Seta slid her elbows beneath his armpits and dragged. The medbay was way too far. It felt like light years by the time she arrived. Slapping the door open with the back of her head, she hauled him inside.

There was a narrow bunk, but no way to get him on it; he was too heavy to lift. So Thrawn was deposited on the floor. Seta gently turned his head to the side, then retrieved the comm.


	6. Resonance

Over the next hour, the _Chimaera_ physician walked her through the extraction of the flechettes that had penetrated Thrawn’s skin. The wound didn’t bleed as much as she expected. The doctor explained the Grand Admiral’s clothing was likely armored when she commented on the fact. He instructed her to strip Thrawn to make sure no hidden wounds were neglected, and that led to the discovery of his earlier, more serious injury. 

Seta tried to describe the large burn-like mark low on his hip. It looked bad to her eyes, worse than the little lacerations caused by the flechettes. It already seemed infected, white pus coating an area the size of two handbreadths. The doctor shared her concern. He warned that clearing it would be extremely painful to the victim, then instructed her how to apply a salted bacta solution. Halfway through the procedure, Thrawn stirred, his hands pushing up, head lifting from the floor.

Instinctively, Seta muted the comm.

“You’re safe. We’re on the shuttle.”

“Are you injured?” His voice was weak.

“No.”

“Is the droid secure?”

She had no idea what he was talking about.

“What droid?”

“The RT unit. It should be onboard.”

“Well it probably is,” she soothed, “I didn’t look.”

“Check.”

“All right.”

“Now, please.”

He spoke like someone who was used to having people obey, even in his miserable condition. With a sigh, Seta got to her feet, opening the comm again as she walked into the corridor.

“Doctor, the patient has sent me on an errand. I think I can take it from here anyway. How long until we arrive?”

There was a pause. Clearly some discussion taking place.

“The shuttle’s destination is the nearest medical frigate, which is approximately twelve hours flight time.” 

So they weren’t going to his ship. She didn’t know if that would be a problem or not, but decided not to tell Thrawn unless she absolutely had to.

“Thank you. I’ll comm you if I have any questions.”

More silence, more muted debate on the other end of the line, but ultimately, they agreed to check back in with her in five hours, and cut the connection. 

No one, throughout, had asked who she was. Remarkable. And weird.

The droid was in the cargo hold. Deactivated, but there. Seta recognized it right away, down to the paint stains. Relief washed over her. It wasn’t her mission, but at least Thrawn wasn’t going back empty-handed. This meant the Empire had something of value, and if the ISB got what they needed, she wouldn’t be blamed for a botched operation. A tremolo of apprehension struck her. 

After priding her neutrality for so long, she now had taken Thrawn’s side. She could no longer consider that the Rebels might actually be in the right for this particular fight.

Seta jogged back to the medbay. Thrawn was where she’d left him, head pillowed on his hands.

“It’s there.”

No response. He was sleeping again, or more accurately, passed out. Probably a good thing, since she was certain the rest of her ministrations wouldn’t be any more pleasant. Seta finished scraping away the white goo coating his side and secured salted bacta patches over the affected area. The scattered cuts over his blue skin from the flechettes were similarly cleaned and covered. When she’d finished, Seta was exhausted.

She leaned her back up against the bunk, considering the man lying on the floor. Only now could she take a minute to wonder at what happened. What had possessed him? He’d obviously stuck to the plan at first, since he’d successfully stolen the droid. What had happened to Tessime? How did Thrawn figure out where the kidnappers had taken her? And when? Why hadn’t he gone in with a regiment of ISB tactical troops instead of storming in alone to rescue her? He’d suffered for the decision, whatever the reason. 

Impulsively, she left the edge of the bed, scooting over to where Thrawn’s head lay against his arms. Crossing her legs, she lifted it up, settling him on the softer pillow of her thigh. Pushing away the hair from his forehead, she checked his pulse again. Stronger. The doctor had told her not to give him any painkillers. Seta assumed it had something to do with Chiss biology, but it was still surprising. But Thrawn was sleeping, so the pain couldn’t be too bad. And after the bacta did its work, he shouldn’t even have scars.

Her fingers absently played with his midnight blue hair, mind full of questions. There was so much she didn’t know about him. 

They slept together, but that intimate knowledge was limited, bedroom-bound. He could be the most evil being in the galaxy, here at her mercy, and she did nothing. What would a Rebel have given, to have a Grand Admiral asleep in their lap? Would their scruples allow them to kill Thrawn at his most defenseless? Or would they throw him into a detention cell, ransom him back to the Empire to finance their bloody rebellion?

What in the world had sent a Grand Admiral on a mission by himself?

His hair was stringy with dried sweat, soft against her palm. Light wrinkles on his eyelids told her his sleep was not untroubled. Seta continued to stroke his head, trying not to think. At least not to think about the tightness in her throat when she considered his weakened condition, the ache in her chest when she realized how many people wanted him dead.

She didn’t want him dead.

Dangerous, to think more about this. Seta pulled her thoughts to more practical matters. She had her easel. Nothing else. Well, Thrawn had said she’d be compensated for the mission. Hopefully enough to buy new clothes and luggage, at the least.

Seta smiled, pleased at her successful thought detour. This was better. Good to be pragmatic. Good to have something to think about besides moral dilemmas posed by her recent activities and the fact that the Rebels could have gotten her killed. Imperials could just as easily have done the same. 

With a sigh, she lowered onto her back, staring up at the ceiling. Thrawn’s head was a hard weight on her leg, but she didn’t mind. She could feel the heat of his breath dampening the material of her pants, and found it reassuring. 

It didn’t take her long to fall asleep.

~~

Thrawn woke her with a groan. He shifted between her legs, which had somehow straightened on the floor. His head had relocated to her midriff, his arms flush against her sides. The stiffness in her back highlighted what a bad idea it had been to sleep on an uncushioned ship deck.

Propping herself up on her elbows, Seta looked down to see Thrawn attempting to get up. Another groan.

“There are painkillers,” she informed him, nodding towards the small cart in the corner. “I have no idea why your ship’s doctor told me not to give you any.”

A look on his lips somewhere between a grimace and a smile as his arms finally worked. Thrawn sat back on his heels, rubbed his face, and got shakily to his feet.

“Because he has explicit instructions not to.”

“Well, that’s stupid.” Seta stood as well. “Why not?”

Thrawn placed a hand against a heart monitor machine for support, coughing. 

“Oh, let me guess,” she sighed. “You like the pain? It’s how you know you’re still alive? You don’t want your senses dulled? You don’t believe in pharmaceuticals? Or it’s just some manly bantha shit?”

“One of those is correct.” 

His eyes glinted, and Seta wondered if that was Thrawn’s version of a joke. Perhaps. He hadn’t demonstrated much of a sense of humor, that was for sure. But she had heard enough to know he had one.

Rolling her eyes, Seta cracked her back and twisted to one side and then the other. She pointed to the bunk.

“I think you’re supposed to rest.”

“The captain’s cabin would be more comfortable.”

She arched an eyebrow, then shrugged, picking up her easel and pressing the door release.

“Lead the way, captain.”

He couldn’t though, the wound on his hip too fresh to make walking unassisted possible. Together they half-staggered, half-plodded to the small but adequate quarters on the opposite side of the deck. Relieved to see the bed had sheets, Seta helped him over to it, then finished undressing him. Thrawn said nothing as she yanked off his boots and socks. His pants were already around his ankles; it had been necessary to clean the burn-like thing on his back. He lay on his stomach on the bed, smudges of blood and grime still visible against the blue of his skin. Seta forced herself to move, despite wanting nothing more than to collapse next to him. She scoured the small attached refresher to find something useful. A few minutes later, hot towel in hand, she wiped carefully around his wounds. Thrawn hissed, clearly in pain, and she paused.

“Thank you,” Thrawn spoke through gritted teeth. “You may continue.”

Fortunately, she was almost done. To distract him, she decided to ask about their recent adventure.

“How did you find me?”

A grumble that didn’t sound like speech. 

That wasn’t helpful. A rivulet of water slid down his side and she caught it with the towel before it wet the sheets. The image reminded her of the mysterious artwork he possessed. Finally she could ask. 

“Mitth’raw’nuruodo?”

He made a small noise. 

“Tell me about the painting in your office.”

He stretched his arms under the pillow and turned his head to look at her. Seta took that opportunity to fold the towel over and wipe at his face. He said nothing while she worked, but when she’d finished...

“What do you want to know?”

She liked how he didn’t ask which one. Both of them knew there was only one she wouldn’t have recognized. It gave her a satisfied, warm feeling she didn’t really want to analyze. She pitched the towel onto the corner bureau.

“Who painted it? Where is it from? Tell me everything.” Seta stood, stripping off her own clothes. Thrawn watched through slitted eyes. “Do you know the composition of the pigment? How the blues and whites are so rich? It looks like watercolor but something…organic. Thicker.”

He was smiling. A smile that was different than any other she’d seen on his lips. Like he wasn’t covered in bacta patches with gashes and burns all over his body.

“Well?” she asked, sliding next to him in the bed.

“The paint is unique. Its watery nature lends itself to the painterly, loose technique.”

“It wouldn’t work for impasto,” she nodded in agreement. “But I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“It is from a planet in the Unknown Regions. A world full of glaciers and ice caves. The paint was sourced from polar meltwaters.” Thrawn shifted slightly, making more room for her alongside. “So in addition to the carbon and silica that you would expect, it bears the color signature of whatever specific glacier is used for the dye extract.”

“So the glaciers are blue…” It sounded like a lovely place. Seta liked the cold.

“The majority are some type of blue,” he confirmed, voice stronger now. “The compression of snow and age gives birth to a variety of shades. Others are more green. Some are even black.”

“Your planet.” 

She could tell, by how he spoke. How strange, a blue planet with a blue people. With an amazing, naturally manufactured color palette. One she would never have access to. No wonder she couldn’t even begin to reproduce the piece.

Thrawn draped an arm over her, closing his eyes.

“Who painted it?” She held her breath, hoping he’d answer. 

“Bsetahah,” he whispered, and pulled her closer to him. 

The name she’d claimed when they first met. He hadn’t argued. The irony was too much. Of all the artist identities to coopt, she’d chosen one from his homeworld.

“So…”

“Sleep,” he interrupted, and Seta found herself unwilling to push. He was hurt. And they both needed to rest.

She didn’t sleep well, though. Thrawn’s embrace was heavy, and Seta woke more than once with an uncomfortable pressure in her lungs that she attributed to his weight. The third time, she gave up, slipping from the bed and heading to the refresher. After a long sonic, she felt almost back to normal, although her back still hurt from the nap on the floor and her wrists were bruised from the binders. Returning to the main cabin, she turned on her EZel. Just a couple more hours, according to the chrono. Suddenly remembering she hadn’t checked in with the doctor, Seta cursed silently, hurrying back to the medbay as fast as possible. She’d left the comm there. It buzzed the second she picked it up.

“Yes?”

“Ma’am, is Grand Admiral Thrawn all right?”

“Yes yes I’m sorry!” Seta apologized profusely, then explained he’d slept, she’d napped and the comm was left in the medbay. 

There was no comment on this information, and the ensign who probably had been comming incessantly transferred her to the doctor. She gave him an update. The doctor next transferred her to a Commander Vanto, who made her repeat everything she’d told everyone else. Seta had felt guilty, but this was pointless. Finally, she had enough.

“I’m sorry I forgot to check in,” she growled, “but the longer I’m here talking to you the longer he’s alone and without my help if he needs something. And I am not going to comm you in the same room and risk waking him.”

That seemed to chasten Vanto, and he apologized.

“Thank you ma’am. You’ve been through a lot, it sounds like. Glad you’re there to take care of him.”

Earlier Seta had wondered if Thrawn was the most evil man in the Empire. It was difficult to believe he’d risen so high in the ranks with principles and integrity intact. But the concern displayed by his crew, in particular this Commander, made her reconsider. 

“You guys really like your boss, don’t you?” she marvelled more than asked. The comm crackled with static before an answer came.

“He’s a good commanding officer.” Vanto’s voice sounded smaller. 

“And a good man.” She didn’t know why she was pushing—wanted to feel better about the choices she’d made over the past few days, perhaps.

“That too.”

“I’m going to close the comm, Commander. I’ll let him know his crew send their best.”

“Thank you. We’ll rendezvous at the medical frigate less than ten hours after your arrival.”

With a final goodbye, she turned it to silent, and headed back to the captain’s quarters.

Thrawn lay on his side, three quarters of his head buried in the pillow. The strong line of his neck was exposed, longish hair falling over his forehead. Slight furrows in his brow were visible through the locks. Impulsively, she grabbed her stylo. 

Seta took a moment to confirm the Rebels hadn’t deleted her data, only sliced her device. That she didn’t care about; she’d buy a new one anyway. This one was battered enough and due for a replacement.

Her hand moved with surety, sketching the outline of his head, the awkward angles of his slumber. It was a very different look from before—the vulnerability that was so meticulously veiled in her earlier sketch laid bare by the combined peace and stress of his features. 

The absence of Thrawn’s glowing stare didn’t make it easier to draw him, as she would have expected. Instead, she found herself trying to capture the confidence that was so effortless in her earlier portrait—the commander beloved by his troops. It was the opposite challenge of before—drawing out the strength from the weakness that was presently more visible.

Seta didn’t doubt his capacity for ruthlessness—it probably was a prerequisite for Imperial success—but had a hard time imagining Thrawn as cruel. She hadn’t witnessed it, but as her stylo summoned his lined brow and his drawn lips onto her screen, she feared it was only hidden. 

He had secrets. Like his desire for intimacy, could it be dormant until he was pushed? Summoned like a mynock to a leaky power coupling?

Thrawn had allowed himself to indulge in her company. Or perhaps he’d indulged her. Smiling at the memories, Seta pushed hair out of her eyes. Fair to call it a mutual indulgence. And now, looking at him sleeping, she could admit that she liked him. Hearing that his troops liked him helped make the idea more palatable. It made sense; they were compatible in many ways. He liked her too; she wasn’t blind to it.

Nevertheless, a dead end path to go down. Casual sex. That’s what she’d offered. What he’d accepted… Thrawn was incapable of more—she knew it instinctively, and just as instinctively knew it was futile to examine the reasons.

With a sigh, Seta reviewed her work, no longer certain it was a good idea to sketch a sleeping Grand Admiral. This was more impressionist than her other portrait, but he was still identifiable, those cheekbones, that strong jawline that disappeared into the contrasting softness of the pillow’s linen.

But like the other sketch, she’d done this one for herself.

Still naked, Seta shut off the datapad and climbed back into bed. He had to wake up, sadly. According to the timeline she’d been given, they could expect to arrive at the medical frigate in about one standard hour. 

“_Vuka_,” she whispered, placing a kiss on his forehead.

“_Ukhuluma izilimi ezingaki?_” Thrawn answered, his voice muffled and rough with sleep.

“A few,” she answered. “How about you?”

“Same.” His arm looped around her again, and she inched closer, until she was lying half-under his chest. Thrawn hadn’t lifted his head from the pillow. “You like secrets.”

Seta didn’t have much to say to that. She thought he wasn’t one to talk, but to voice that opinion seemed confrontational, and she was quite enjoying this unexpected snuggle.

“It’s important, in my line of work,” she protested. He smiled briefly at her dodge. “Yours too.”

Ignoring that, Thrawn tightened his arm, the pressure welcoming.

“I presume you woke me for a reason.”

There was a perfectly good reason for him to be awake pressing against her thigh, but it seemed unwise to point it out given his current condition. Instead, Seta filled him in on everything that happened to her, from the time the imposter stormtrooper banged on their door, through her strange interrogation, the comms with his ship, and her recent activities while he was passed out.

When she confessed to drawing him while he slept, Thrawn exhaled deeply, burying his nose back into the pillow.

“Do you want to see?” she offered.

“Will I like it?” he asked, turning back to face her, his lips so close she could feel his breath. The question surprised her, and she took it seriously.

“I don’t know,” she answered eventually. “_I_ like it. It’s you.”

She didn’t really want to move from her cozy position, so was relieved when Thrawn demurred.

“Good,” he murmured. Seta could feel his heartbeat, strong and steady against her own chest where she lay.

“So…” she wrapped up, hoping he wasn’t annoyed, “we have about twenty minutes now, maybe less.”

In response, he kissed her, hard. She hadn’t expected it—one second his face was half-hidden by the pillow, the next his lips were colliding with hers. Twenty minutes hardly seemed like enough time, but this could be the last time they were together. The last time she was _with_ him. 

The revelation slammed into her like an asteroid, making her lungs hurt. She couldn’t hold him, couldn’t put her arms around him due to his injuries, but Thrawn solved that urge by trapping her wrists with his hands above her head, shifting so his full weight pinned her to the mattress. His lips pressed harder, a demanding strength there she first opened to, then mirrored. There was an urgency to his movements that reflected her own sense of pending loss. Time was against them. 

Circumstances were against them. 

Thrawn crossed one of her wrists with the other, holding her down with one hand as he shoved inside without preamble or preparation. She was ready for him though—she always was. His tongue traced a line along her neck as his free hand dropped to where they were joined. He’d learned her quickly, and typically had an incredible way of drawing things out. This time, though, she snapped a violent release in minutes, her body clenching around him as he drove deeper and harder, breath heavy. Being fucked like this was different—desperation seemed to color his movements, flavor his kisses, and hide behind the brightness of his eyes. 

With a final slam to her core, Thrawn came, a grunt that carried more pain than pleasure leaving his lips.

Both of them panted, unmoving in the aftermath. Seta realized abruptly he couldn’t roll off her, not onto his back at least.

She kissed him lightly, trying not to think about last times or sentimental nerf tripe like that, and gently shifted her hips. Thrawn took the hint, and she headed to the refresher. He soon followed.

Less than three minutes after Seta finished dressing in her old clothing, a proximity chime rang throughout the ship. Thrawn had already gone to the cockpit. She watched silently as he communicated with the frigate, shutting down the slave circuit and piloting them onto the landing platform in the assigned hangar.

A full med team was waiting to welcome them, as well as several battalions of stormtroopers, the ship’s commander, and what looked like half of the crew, lined up at attention. 

Grand Admiral Thrawn looked grand indeed, standing ramrod straight—which must be killing his back, Seta thought—and issuing orders with disinterested precision. The shuttle must be secured. No one in or out. His consultant, as he introduced her, would not require debriefing. She would be given a guest suite on the level for dignitaries and visiting bureaucrats. Grand Admiral Thrawn would walk himself to the medbay, no stretcher required, and would meet with the CO and XO in two hours’ time. The _Chimaera_’s arrival was eagerly anticipated, they were both assured, and everyone looked forward to making the Grand Admiral and his consultant’s brief stay as pleasant as possible.

Seta thought the sycophantic ship commander was a little disappointed that his high-ranking guest was capable of standing on his own two feet, but he hid it quickly.

And just like that, Thrawn was gone, whisked away in a sea of grey-suited officers. She was escorted by a deferential and severe-looking woman to a large but simple cabin. Exhausted and hungry, Seta requested a dinner tray before heading to the refresher. She ate without really tasting the food, but it filled her stomach. Seta’s normal thought process—the ability to segment and ignore—wasn’t working as well as she liked, so after slipping into a medcenter gown that was thoughtfully delivered along with her meal, she went to sleep.

A brief knock on the door woke her. Thrawn. She didn’t check or consider why the chime hadn’t rung, just opened the portal without thinking. A young man with a shock of unruly hair peeking out from his cover stood there, eyes widening at her state of undress. The gown didn’t hide much.

“Yes?” she managed, as if it had been her intention to answer the door for him like this.

“Good morning, Seta. I’m Eli, Commander Vanto. We spoke earlier.”

Seta. The first of Thrawn’s team to use her name. She was convinced this was a clue or a code of some kind. It meant Thrawn trusted this man. She would do the same, she decided, stepping aside and ushering him into the room. She must have slept a long time, if the _Chimaera_ had arrived.

“How is he?” she asked, noticing for the first time that Vanto was holding a round parcel, which he set on the small dining table.

A brief smile. “He’s fine. The doc says the bacta did its job.” 

This officer was trying very hard not to stare at her, and Seta found it rather endearing, sitting down on the edge of the bed and crossing her legs. Vanto cleared his throat. 

“And so…he’s uh…back to giving orders, you know. Usual self.”

She nodded, then pointed to the package he’d delivered. “And that?”

“Oh,” he stammered, pulling his eyes away from her. “That’s some new clothes. Grand Admiral Thrawn’s were wrecked, he figured you would need some too. Just standard issue, though—we don’t have much in the way of shops aboard.” Vanto blinked, managed to meet her gaze again. “The ship leaves in an hour, so I came to collect you.” He coughed into his hand. “I’ll wait outside while you get ready.”

“Thank you Commander,” Seta smiled, and meant it. Fresh clothes. Hopefully basics too. Thank the stars.

~~

The nondescript green jumpsuit fit, and it only took her a moment to wash her face and brush her hair. Vanto led her to a shuttle—different than the one they’d arrived on—chatting pleasantly the whole way. He wasn’t secretive at all, telling her how he’d been assigned as Thrawn’s interpreter and had worked closely with the Grand Admiral for his entire career. It explained, to Seta’s mind, why Vanto was her escort. Thrawn didn’t trust her—or hadn’t before if he did now—but he clearly trusted Eli Vanto. She also learned that Thrawn had been officially “on leave” for his trip to Alderaan, thus explaining the absence of any support or security detail during their time together. 

She didn’t say much, but Vanto seemed well-informed, and acted as if everything was part of some grand scheme that went mildly awry. He didn’t give any indication that he felt his fleet admiral was an arrogant idiot who needed a good kick in the pants. That was Seta’s impression, which she kept to herself.

When they docked on the _Chimaera_, no one met the shuttle except the hangar crew. Vanto took her along a winding path down endless corridors and up a turbolift to a spotless-looking deck. 

“Officer’s level,” he pronounced, no guile in the words, and stopped before a shining white door. Producing a code cylinder, he handed it to her. “The comms chief prefers to bunk on the lower level, so his cabin is vacant. You’ll be staying here for the two-day trip back to Coruscant.”

She wanted to know where his boss slept…but didn’t quite know exactly how much Thrawn had told this man. “Is this your floor too, Commander?” she asked as a compromise. But Vanto was no fool. If he didn’t know, he guessed.

“All officers, except the comms chief and med chief, are on this deck. So me—” He waved a hand down the hallway. “I’m down there. The CO,” he smiled but controlled it quickly, “is two doors down. Right after the security chief’s cabin.”

“I see,” she answered, offering Vanto the smile he wasn’t willing to share with her. “Thank you, Commander.”

“You’re welcome, Seta. Enjoy your stay aboard.”

~~

It was very different than the last time she was a guest of the _Chimaera_, that was for certain. The comm chief’s quarters weren’t luxurious, but comfortable. Seta was bored though, and soon found herself torn between taking advantage of the freedom she’d been entrusted with—after all having a code cylinder meant she could come and go as she pleased—and staying put in case Thrawn came to visit.

She mostly stayed put. Seta drew on her easel, killed time with stretching, re-read an old _Lives of the Artists_ text she had on her datapad, and browsed the HoloNet. 

Their adventure on Alderaan had gotten a small amount of attention. According to the report, there had been a gas explosion at a small artisanal workshop in the University district. Six fatalities and three injured. The suspicion was that a malfunctioning droid, who had since gone missing, had misaligned power elements in the basement. There was a brief statement from Janray Tessime, one of the founders of the Atelier, stating they would rebuild and be stronger than before.

Thrawn didn’t come to her cabin, and she didn’t run into him in her brief walks through the ship’s spotless corridors—on her way to the mess or returning from it. The trip was just two days, and surely that was enough time for Thrawn to find her, if he wanted. He couldn’t be working all the time, not after suffering the injuries he had. 

Shortly before the scheduled arrival to Coruscant, the security cam chimed, indicating a visitor. Seta pushed the access control expecting Vanto. He had been to check on her twice. This time, of course, it was Thrawn.

“Grand Admiral,” she said, ushering him into the suite. It was easier to remember his title when he was dressed for the position.

“Seta,” he replied evenly as he entered, “you look well.”

“I’ve been getting a lot of sleep,” she answered, then mentally kicked herself for how that came out. It was an honest response, not a criticism of his absence in her bed.

“Should I apologize for that?” Thrawn smiled slightly, and she relaxed at the humor in his regard.

“Maybe,” she grinned back. “Probably.”

“Apologies.” He made no move to kiss her or anything else, so Seta just stood, taking in the pristine white uniform, the tight belt, the spit-shined boots. He looked good, but he had to be tired.

“You doing all right?” She tried to keep her voice light, but there was perhaps a bit more concern in the words than intended.

“I have recovered, but will require bacta treatments for a few more days.”

“That’s good,” she said, wondering what to do now. The atmosphere was charged, moreso even than when they were on Alderaan. She was certain Thrawn wasn’t immune to it. “Thank you for the clothes.”

“Ah.” Her words seemed to remind him of something. “You're welcome.” He gestured towards the door, but didn’t move. “We are approaching Coruscant, and I have arranged for your transport back to Hesperidium.” 

His words were always precise. He would not be accompanying. Seta’s chest felt tight, the muscles there contracting, and she cursed her reaction. She couldn’t expect anything from him. She hadn’t been aware until this moment that she _had_ expected anything. Soon she would be back to her borderline criminal enterprise, trapped on a resort moon until the Empire needed her again.

“Where I can wait for your next mission, I suppose?” 

Seta didn’t try to keep the bitterness from her voice. It had nothing to do with him, she told herself, it was that her travel papers were revoked—her lifestyle no longer a choice but a mandate.

Thrawn looked mildly surprised, his eyebrows lifting. 

“I promised to compensate you for your time,” he stated, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a credit chip. “This is more than enough to buy a new wardrobe, datapad, even a new studio, or…” he paused, eyes studying her with too much interest. Seta shifted her weight, trying to hold his gaze despite its burn. “…a new identity. Passage to a new planet. Enough to set up another life. Retire, if you like.”

Just how many credits was he talking about? Seta looked suspiciously at the card in his gloved fingers.

“I can leave?”

“Yes. Disappear, if that is what you wish.”

She swallowed, trying to figure out what had changed. Conflicting emotions surged beneath her skin. Freedom. If he cared about her, surely he wouldn’t offer her this option, would want her where he could find her…but why should she give a Psadan’s patoot what he wanted anyway? 

Taking a deep breath, she focused once more on Thrawn.

“Is that what you suggest?”

Thrawn deliberated, as if weighing various responses. He took a step closer, eyes still fixed to hers.

“Do you truly wish for my advice?”

“Yes.” She didn’t even hesitate, curious as to his idea of a good plan.

“Move to a small world near trade routes and hyperlanes—one that is already part of the Empire and not resistant to its domination. Abandon _imitations_ and _tributes_ and create original pieces. Stop denying your art by stifling your personal style.” 

He sounded more earnest than she’d ever heard him. This was something he had thought about—something he _cared_ about. 

“You have talent,” he continued, “and an encyclopedic knowledge of medium and technique that you could use to create masterpieces of your own, rather than flawlessly duplicating others’.” 

Shocked at the fervor of his argument, Seta found herself swept up by the possibility. She had a gift for forgery, but that didn’t mean she was shackled to her chosen profession. In truth, she’d never considered trying to survive as an ‘original’ artist. It was something that required more credits than talent, and she’d never felt her lifestyle allowed for the experiment.

But Thrawn was serious. 

“What world, then, do you have in mind?”

“Orinda, perhaps.” He handed over the credit chip, tension in his frame. “The Rebellion is growing in strength and audacity in the Core systems. Orinda is a good choice for a safe and prosperous future.”

She nodded, confused and flattered at his consideration. The credit chip, if it truly held the sums he was implying, was a terrifying thing to hold. She put it in her pocket as if it would shatter. And his mention of the Rebellion reminded her—

“Did you get what you needed? From Artie?”

Thrawn nodded. “The Rebels were careful, but the droid nonetheless yielded useful intelligence. The sting at the auction also provided dozens of new leads for the ISB to follow.”

His personal comm vibrated, and his eyes turned a darker red as he thumbed it off without answering.

“_Ngizokukhumbula_, Mitth’raw’nuruodo,” Seta said, wondering if she would ever see him again. Doubting it.

“And I you. Be safe.”

His comm buzzed again and with a distant nod, Thrawn hit the control to open the door. 

He’d been gone no more than fifteen seconds when the portal chimed again. Her heart in her throat, she released it to see—Vanto. He read the disappointment on her face.

“I’m sorry. He was leaving as I was coming,” he explained, evidently having passed his boss in the corridor.

“Never mind.” Seta waved a hand as if she could dissipate the tension in the air. Strangely, she didn’t feel embarrassed at his insight. “I suppose you’re taking me to the shuttle, Commander?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you,” she managed, going to grab the new pack that ship’s supply had given her. It held her EZel and her ruined clothing.

The walk to the shuttle was brief. Vanto stopped just inside the hangar, and Seta realized he too was not accompanying her to the surface. As before, she would have stormtroopers taking her to her door. Some things, apparently, hadn’t changed.

“Seta,” he said, warmth in his voice. “I hope we’ll see you again.”

“I think that’s unlikely, Commander Vanto.” She smiled at him, glad that Thrawn had someone around that he trusted as much as this young man. “But, for what it’s worth, I hope so too.”

He shook her hand, and then she was led up the Lambda shuttle’s ramp, away from Vanto, Thrawn, and the Imperial Star Destroyer _Chimaera_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Vuka_: Wake up  
_Ukhuluma izilimi ezingaki?_: How many languages do you speak?  
_Ngizokukhumbula_: I will miss you


	7. Ebullience (Epilogue)

_Eight months later_

“Coming!” Seta wiped paint-spattered hands on her smock, heading to the entrance. She had enough money now for a household droid, but after a few misunderstandings related to delivery of her art supplies and an almost-scuffle with the mail droid, her Class Three unit was forbidden from answering her door. 

She checked the cam. It was the regular GG-18 that serviced her sector. But her last order was delivered a week ago, and she wasn’t expecting anything.

“Good morning, Mistress Seta,” the droid greeted her. “Please sign for a package.” It held out a datapad and she absently scribbled her name, then reached for the small parcel. It was marked in a strange language she didn’t recognize, although her new identity—Seta Dolus—was neatly addressed in Aurebesh.

She thanked the droid and elbowed the control to lock to door, heading back to the studio. Using a palette knife, she slit the seals, gingerly opening the lid.

The box contained eight generous tubes of paint. A late shipment? 

Seta removed the first color from where it was nestled in the container, all confusion vanishing. 

It was the exact shade she needed to reproduce the Bsetahah piece. All the colors were there. Glacial blue, sapphire ice, iceberg black, snowy white, a cobalt reminiscent of Thrawn’s skintone—all extracted organically from his homeworld. Seta sat down heavily at the table, a strange blend of sadness and joy at the extraordinary gift. 

She should have known he would be able to find her—it had been his idea.

Seta wondered if Thrawn was content that she’d taken his advice, or at least most of it. Orinda was a lovely little planet, and it was indeed easier to distribute and sell her work with its Imperial leanings, and commerce lanes open to the galaxy.

With this precious gift, she could faithfully copy the work now, it was true. The magnificent painting was burned in her memory. But she suddenly found she didn’t want to. Instead, Seta decided, she would create something new. 

Something that came from her heart, painted with something that was close to his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dolus is a nod to the Greek mythological god of trickery.

**Author's Note:**

> The names of all the artists in this fic are a mix of Star Wars artists, whose names can be found in Wookieepedia, and real (our galaxy) artists. The exception is Bsetahah, which is the Cheunh word for “glittering” and is an artist I made up.
> 
> All the random art conversation, references, and artwork detailed in the story can be explored further in Wookieepedia entries (including images of some of the specific pieces). Some of my artsy jargon (particularly the discussion on Krath conceptual art) owes a debt to the brilliant Matthew Collings, who has written some excellent books to make “high” and “abstract” art accessible, understandable, and appreciated by the masses. 
> 
> Sy Bisti is, per Timothy Zahn, bastardized Zulu. In Chapter One _Ukonakaliswa_ means destruction.


End file.
